The illusion of control. The escape of destruction, or the fantasy of relief. All roads lead to Rome, where Rome is the terminal of regret and malfunction. We are running the loop, the logic gate of human life, punctuated by pain and pleasure, through which life flows like gray-water, seeking the path of least renaissance.
Do you know which trail leads to the summit? You just might, You might think it, and you might find it. But for everyone else it’s a wrist flick, a dice roll, and a critical failure into the inky shadows of the infinite.
They joke about it on the Simpsons. Malaise forever, a famous speech by a dead man. A few years ago he wasn’t dead, but in reality, he went, so he was and is. He sought the summit, but the valley pulled him in.
This is a program. You probably think yourself an author, but I hate to break it to you: you’re as on-rails as the next car in the queue. Your fresh and bright ideas have already been explored and your cautious optimism has been proven and disproven. It’s always dependent on the receptacle consuming your self-righteous periodical. Congratulations, you shriveling nobody.
You probably think I’m a pessimist. As it happens, I’m not. It’s quite optimistic to think I see the fabric and the stitches, to think if I cling long enough to the curtain I will swing out on the other end the hero with my boots cleaner than when I first set foot in the mire.
It’s a program. Just follow it. Seek the next paragraph if you must, but you’re not even in the supporting cast. So be content with the playbill, and your dusty collection will persist as long as your DNA retains its credit before the universe cashes in. See you at the register.