The People.

They are a sick and twisted conglomeration
Of borderline incestuous imbeciles
That relies on the subsistence provided by
The derivative juices of their
Tasteless minds and base comprehension of reality.
They spin a web that connects one to the other
In an endless labyrinthine pattern of convoluted dependency.
Dragged by the momentum from their trajectories,
they end in pit of their own desolation.
And I look in from the outside
With the view that only Dr. T.J Eckleburg is endowed
Feeling a great sense of superpower
In the form of all omni’s
Or maybe yet I’m disillusioned and am no better
Than the structures of adipose and fashioned calcium
That I’ve grown so critical of.
It’s easy to forge a path of self-righteousness
While under the impression that
Ones mind has surpassed the great ones,
Worked beyond what man has had the capacity to think
The internal ruminations that I am the single master
Of the world’s mysteries and intentions
And maybe then the mirage flickers,
The letters metamorphose to reveal
The underlying hieroglyphs that show that They
Is more closely synonymous to I than we think.
Leaving us with this fleeting sense
That we are no more than the dust under our feet.
How quickly we forget then this parable
Because we are afraid to accept the ludicrous
Wanting to patch and stitch our broken sense of purpose
With a sense of urgency and insanity.
So we smother ourselves in the salve of self-creationism
And it seeps into our cerebral cortex,
Working it’s magic to wash the growing Polaroid.
We realign ourselves with spines still curved,
Futilely trying to salvage what
We never even had in the first place.

Apocalyptic Renaissance

So it's funny to reflect on the year that has just passed and to see how far I've come and how much I've changed. I'm still disappointed to realize that all of the profound exclamations of self-actualization over this last year have amounted to quite little. I still seem to care about seemingly unimportant things in the grand scheme of life and that was never more apparent as it was as the year came to a close. I think in a way that I've let myself become defeated and that my subconscious self has lapsed into a state of stasis. Inactive. Irresponsive. Indecisive. I've put little effort into really making the things in my head come true and I'm baffled by the fact that I just continue to just expect things to happen as if I've earned it. But I guess that's my MO, isn't it? To start afresh and anew, speculate the downfalls of our coercive society, ramble and diminish the complexities of life into a few short declarations of an "enlightened child of the universe", and to wrap it all up with the expectations that I have become a reformed person. Except that never once have I been so wrong about myself.

They say that the easiest person to fool is yourself and for my entire life, I have done exactly that. I still bear the cross of my poor existence like a blind infant. I fail to resolve my supposedly hormonal angst that comes with any bildungsroman because of the common hamartia of man, pride. I've deceived myself into becoming a goddess within the palace of my own mind, unkind to this who criticize when only they speak the truth. I refuse to hear the words of those around me that try to show me that I am as human as the rest of them. I am drawn to people that playact as sirens only to become so destructive as to drive them away. I am my own failing and I am nothing special.

But this isn't some tragic soliloquy where I gripe about my unimportant existence but rather an acknowledgement that not all of us can be the "extraordinary man". I concede that I may never be better that those who I criticize for being dull and dimwitted because maybe to another I am equally dull and dimwitted. Is it tragic to say that despite all this, I still maintain hope for my future? That I can still see a brighter path down the way? Does that make me foolish or optimistic? Or do those characteristics go hand in hand?