All to often, we often feel compelled to sacrifice or postpone the seeds of joy in favor of a practicality that we hope will insure a secure future.....
when you come from debris, a solid foundation in the future becomes an obsession.
In fact, most of your young life is spent in a state of building, because standing on moving rubble is the worst of things you know.
This causes one to adapt and transform into shells or mutations of yourself that are not only unrecognizable but are completely false.
In your head you construe these mutations as a form of strength, or rising above your given circumstance, so you press on, full speed ahead, onward to your success loyal soldier.
salute!
Embarking on this imaginary path though, you invariably lose your way.
You aren't sure you remember what is you and what is shell.
You cry at the loss of yourself almost always.
You cry because you don't remember what is real and you've imagined.
You cry because you used to feel and now you're incapable.
There is a calm that comes from your productivity.
Swallow the fragmented shells and create a stronger hybrid individual that can be controlled and continually manipulated over time, promising success and security?
Or attempt to excavate the remnants that was once your soul and fling yourself smack dab into the unknowness of the fucken planetary world.
Awesome.
Splat!
Probably not.
What's behind door number two?
Why are we so afraid of happiness really?
Infatuation.
Zeal.
Amour.
Provocateur?
Its because real happiness makes us irrational.
Bottom line.
End of fucken story.
A builders biggest angst.
For it takes us off our calculated plan.
Into a place of lawlessness.
And any builder knows a world like that, simply cannot be.
A world of dreams?
Unrealistic.
Builders are very scared people contrary to the popular belief.
They build the most perfect heartbroken lives don't you agree?
The mayberry's of the world, for all to adore.
What awe and respect they are given.
The more perfection, the more heartbreak, I assure you.
Those walls are cold inside my friend.
The irony in it all, no?
Children aspiring to be you.
Empty fragile you.
The rubble people are the ones that truly live, and yet they don't even know it.
There is nothing else to do in the rubble, but live you see.
Only to appreciate the small.
Simple beings.
Wonderful beings.
Artisitic, compassionate, soulful beings.
We builders fear their lax.
But we secretly admire them so.
You know, with their souls and all.
We paint them. Draw them.
Write about them.
Build buildings and monuments for them.
Cities even.
Confidentially fall in love with them and then deny them.
Discard them because we fear becoming one of them.
"what would people think?!"
Only applying yet again, another layer to our own eternal ache.
Building it further.
Denying our selves what it means to truly live.
Keep building.
Destined we are...to live forever in our minds.
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.........All to often we feel compelled to sacrifice or postpone the seeds of joy in favor of a practicality that we hope will insure a secure future.......
