I feel fraudulent in my sometimes misguided crusade, despite the better part of me ultimately concluding that what I am doing is right. Settled between miscellaneous implications and the simplification of right vs. wrong, I find myself at odds. I suppose that in this suspended moment, there is no action for the greater good that supersedes the very notion of what is right versus what is wrong. Many human things are simply wrong, and sometimes require editing, or rewriting. Now is one such a moment. The wells of rage that overflow on the streets bruise me in familiar spots, as I know this fight. I think of my micro world and the obligation I have to myself, first and foremost. I am no martyr, nor am I a savior. I am who I’ve always been.
This pact of respect with myself swings both ways, and I have this obligation to fulfill the mere existence of human willpower, and perhaps consumption of the philosophical variety. Someday, I may sum up the courage to come to terms with my inner workings. I’ll come to the table of my demons in resolution and not nihilism.
Tonight, I know nothing.
Separate from the shit at hand, know this:
There is no great escape at the end of your tunnel,
no immortal exit awaiting at the end of the journey.
There are sequential actions that come back around,
neither immediate nor temporary, they will creep,
they will bide their time until the moment calls,
when their dormancy ends and they activate,
and they will strike you in bright daylight,
and cut you open as mercilessly as you have done to others,
I cycle through what I cannot see,
left to piece together a puzzle that will not click,
it will not snap into place,
as life does not compartmentalize so easily,
and I am left broken.
Defeated by more than my worst enemy,
played for dead by a ghost I cannot see,
a grim reaper who has taken everything from me.
Yet, there are ways to come out from downstairs,
so many ways that I’m privvy to and you are not.
You will be marked.
We are the children of great men,
men who have elevated their people to insurmountable heights,
men who have built a microcosm of comfort and decadence.
Our forefathers have concluded that civilized society can exist when it is removed from its grisly origins,
entire lives can be lived in luxurious underdevelopment,
a second and third thought never needing to be spared.
We spring forth as the denizens of this grand society,
reaping the uncompromising spoils of our day and age,
privilege that has been rooted in blood and suffering and fire.
This fortuitous circle of life continues for you and I,
as those darkened faces remain at the bottom of the barrel,
for they are the inevitable byproduct of the unforgiving lives we lead.
We are stained with their blood,
we have drunk the tainted water for the entirety of our short and misleading existence,
and we will go on never knowing.
But still, what of those others, the ones we have left out to die?
The ones who will be forgotten and overshadowed by more applicable tragedies?
Will someone unearth their suffering from the malnourished ground lest we, their great saviors and executioners, forget them one day?
Why don’t you tell me something I don’t already know, a revelation that shifts my sunken world, a thing that turns my beliefs inwards, that infinite void of encapsulation without pretense or supposition, you ostentatious fuck, tell me something new, avoid presenting oneself in a light you can’t ever emanate, it’s the kind of shade we walk in, the one you can’t borrow, the kind we’re made of the moment we’re born, it can’t be recreated or mimicked, it’s innate, it’s either there or it’s not, we walk in our tribe of selective disentanglement, that’s where I stand, it’s who I am. Who are you?
You know that moment when the Earth cracks in half,
when you can see the inside at that odd angle?
It’s when you know what’s important,
when you realize where your life is headed.
People on the periphery, the exterior, they don’t matter.
It’s the ones you’re bound to by heir and blood,
they’re the ones who will save you in due time.
You’re alone when it comes to others,
they won’t care for you the same way.
They would feed themselves before they fed you,
would shelter their own before sheltering you.
There are but few of us saintly enough to trust in humanity.
But your own, they’ll come for you.
You’ll always have a place with them.