With plastic sheets comes slipping

Heat wave.
Ice age.
Train tracks.
Long gone.
The trees keep disappearing,
Eaten by the scenery.
Walking and talking,
Suspicions jump to a new height.
We’re thinking and naming,
But we can’t help remembering,
That we’re living on top of the world.
Protected by the plastic sheets we threw down,
The guarantee persists that we’re gonna be alone.
Everything is snapping,
At different times, I guess you would say.
But it feels to me like a different game I’m playing.
Language flows and stands ready for evaluation,
Knowing it’s life is one of pure transcendence.
My eyes try to question,
But the years behind have shut that alley down.
I’m looking at the world in terms of change and downfalls,
Yet, the past refuses to bend.
A constant reminder that I know everything.
My trouble, it seems, is a matter of recollection.
We keep trying to jump forward,
But the future’s already gone.
We have adapted the system of valuation and even our very moral code from that of language. We have learned to generalize as a rule of thumb. To impress beliefs and thoughts to conform to a standard definition. The time for the individual man has long been gone. These are days of men, in which man serves the greater cause, whether he consents or struggles. We have oriented our minds to these creators of language, or as we are so fond, “God”. We look towards the future as if to numb our minds of the existence of suffering. Or so it seems. But the fault is not in the future living that plagues so many a mind, but rather, a more fundamental flaw hides from the lights of thinkers. We have looked onto life with tears waiting in our eyes. But this has not always been so! There was a time, when man was in his prime, that a gaze cast brought no tears, but only expressions of beings-in-themselves. Now, on this current brink of dawn, or dusk, my eyes know not, I am faced with the conditions that have had no hand of mine in their planning. I must find a way to reconcile the conflict between who I must become and that which I create in my image. This is my solitary struggle, onto which so many have met with a disapproving look. Fear not, those who believe me confused or sad or anything you may ever think that I am, for I assure you now, to feel pity on me is surely wasted. I will never feel a day of torment or anguish or sorrow, even. I will live a life without a care towards this whirlwind of suffering so many of you claim to have mastered.

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