Max, or Not

In life, we are plagued with many things.
Some serve to compel us forward.
Some, seem only to exist to thwart our pusillanimous progress toward the arbitrary goal of being human.
What on earth is this innate desire to adhere to such ludicrous standards of corporeal existence?
What is this tethering to that which can only be thought of as tormented torturing?

To be able to reasonably anticipate the fate of each moment is a fate worse than death itself.
To know the rhythm of each step.  
The cadence of every footfall.
To know the precise frame of time in which that insidious sliver of seeping sunlight will slip in through the window’s crack to smack you into the oblivion of consciousness.

Beholden to the call of nature’s never-ending reminder that our minds are moored to primal needs to which we must abide.
To know that dreams we hope to reach are ever dangling within our reach on string-bound carrots tied to sticks that sit firmly within the grasp of capitalistic ceremony.
Only to be ripped from our hands as the sky rips off its fleece of sloe that flickered with the promises of worlds we’ve yet to know.
Worlds we once had known.

Our dreams become less reasonable as reason wriggles into our conscious condemnation of the hope we must forgo.
The cost exceeds the measures of the treasures life might show us.

And so, we go from lavish fiction in depictions of our making to the stark and unforgiving scripts seemed written solely to afflict us.
Imprisoned by a temporality that deems our freedom nothing more than fruitless. Scheming to destroy the only things that make this life worth living.

And believe that it’s a given, that regardless of how much we strive to live the lives that linger long in silent songs that writhe in our subconsciousness, we slowly die each time we’re forced to lift our eyelids open.  
To the moment of our hope’s demise, we try to trick ourselves into thinking thoughts in which our dreams aren’t sinking fast like ghostly ships aghast into the vast, dark abyss of bottomless abandon.

So that we might barely subsist.
This is not the life we want.

Dubious portrayals made to convey a fervid fantasy none can achieve lest they bereave their one and only soul’s reprieve by leaving all that could have been. To sleep beneath the silent seas of muted pleas whose surface screams tempestuously with festering feelings of remorse and discontented cries of silent implore.

Born into a life of languishing where anguish rules as king with such an iron fist, the siren’s kiss falls into effigy.
It’s far beyond what’s known as wrong but come the shadow of the dawn we must persist as listless pawns e’er clamoring just to go on.  

For if we were to choose a fate not left effete by our own feet and force ourselves to deviate from what’s accepted and expected we would find ourselves neglected by our peers appearing queer whose scolding sneers and jilted jeers sustain our ever-loving fears of failure as our freedom fades.  As quickly as we can adhere to anhedony-addled tears of consequence beyond compare.

We forsake freedom for the sake of filling holes of corporate waste for ends that we will never taste.
A lifetime spent with egg on our face.

There is no hope for time replaced.
Still, knowing this, we must awaken without time to contemplate our dreams in hypnagogic states that hold the key needed to free our soul from these arbitrary weights.

Inflicted on our conscious being bearing on our consciences absconding with the only thing that would ensconce our existence.
But our purpose has been purloined for acquisition of gold coin in copious amounts of which we’ll never see by all accounts.

As pointless is this penned appeal I must present this truth concealed for I must voice these things I feel lest I succumb to my ideals of suicidal impetus of such unbridled force that thrusts upon me like this bed of bricks from where I now sit writing this.