Place the hope of your yesteryears in the box with everyone else. A pot luck of chance. Broiling mess of dreams made into the metal of the chains which leave you emancipated and yearning for the fresh air. You can sit through every class and every service looking for the answer and the answer will always remain far, far away, like the moon as large as the sky itself. The further you strain, the worse the pain gets until you fall over on your knees, looking up through the trees and no close than you were before. Brought down by reality.
It took tens of thousands of years for man to break through the cage and finally touch that glowing object that held us so. For only a few years did we go and go again, to touch Heaven and return. Then given up, never back, never escaping. Stuck here, toiling and locked in to our own innerverse. Wrapped in tarps of advertisement and celebrity until the only way out is to dig six feet under.
Medicate until happy. Claw at couch arms and desks and pens as the worst people you know make the most money for your hate. Cling to the idea your vote counts. Eat away until you can’t think, can’t read, can’t smile, can’t be. Be lost, as they want you to be.
The they isn’t real, for your information. The they aren’t the government, the churches or the preps at your school. They is you. Your soul. Your impulses. Your self-loathing of your very existence, the idea you have raped over and over hoping someone would take the time to give you a cookie and care for your inane whining.
The cookies won’t come. The pat on the back, placing a sign or a knife or a target. Your trust is sacred, but you trust everyone. From mailman to teacher to the seemingly lonely girl who just needs 20 bucks to get home. You trust everyone, and you’re always let down. Good. Trust is not a baby to be shown off in cards and Facebook. Trust is meant for an elite few. Trust is esoteric. When you can look at a best friend and information is passed. When lives are on the line, trust matters, and when its time, do you want someone there who may be your savior? Or your executioner?
I am supposed to care. I am supposed to conform. I am supposed to lose to win and give to take. I am supposed to sell. I am supposed to be there.
I am not.
A man is not there to create your world for you. A man is not there to break the wall down for you. A man is not there to pull you from the gutter or take that one foot out of the grave.
A man is the one who does it himself, struggling through everything he has done and that has been done to him until he is bled dry of every morsel of civilized morality and manners. That is the soul of a man. Not picket fences. Not clean bathrooms scented by infomercials. Not proper words or congenial hairstyles. Not a caress or a kiss or a bed of roses waiting.
A man is the last person you want to have a coffee with, and the only person you want near you for the rest of your life. Because he is one who can strain beyond the reach of rockets and governments, beyond himself, and put his fingerprint on the moon right in front of your eyes.