To resist is to piss in the wind.
Let's take this one day at a time; there will be room for the major happenings of our minor plans in the future; let's only "hope" it comes with the due fervor to which we dream of them. The escapism has been winding down gradually, we're both aware of this, and there's nothing quite wrong with that - Save the fact that the essence of the closure to our meet pierces far more than we'd have thought possible as a simple passing gaze across technophillic skies.
But do we dare take what they offer? A life bereft of the hedonism of choice, begetting the solitudious prohibation of extended horizons. The doors slam shut as time winds down, less possibilities, more "what ifs"; and essentially a life of regrets as we look t'ward greener pasteurs. To be content with what we have and where we're going is truly at the onus of all of those quaint little dreams we had in our quiet youths of rabble rousing for shits and giggles; we've grown old and our perceptions apparently depthened as we shift the focus from the constant instant pleasure to which we used to submerge ourselves in to erase the possibility of a dark sunset of impending monotony; said monotony is now.
However, in the streamlined path that we've chosen to follow due to it's yellowbrick appeal, we seem to have lost sight of where that goal was meant to be; all outlaying factors of "life" as that cloud'esque dream seem to unfurl in a cacophony of unsurities and insecurities. It's just another phase, a path to follow, a fork in the road becomes a sureset path, we've made our choices and this is now; excuse how vague I am, you'd understand if you had to put up with them this long.
The only thing fueling me at the moment is the gains that I've made; whenever I start to feel cocky, however, something is sure to knock me on my ass and shift the mindset to the precipice of self-loathing regret, for not taking the higher road to those oh-so-pretty rolling hills. Enough of the teen angst; for at least a minute - The gains that have been made have been momentous, the handouts have silver spooned this youthful rapscallion into a state of self-induced weakness; though, it is only a phase, it feels like a lifetime of repeating facets to what could be attributed to a gambler not cutting loose and making a dash when it was truly needed. Not to wallow in self pity, but just to get those little dreams back on track - Surely to stop wasting time, but never to be without time wasted; if one has no time to waste, how could they truly be living?
But that raises a tired old philosophical question: Is the application of self living, or is the contemplation and reflection over application? Depending on one's laurels, and where they rest, it's a sure sign that the dreamers can only fall beneath their lacklustre existence, and the workhorses may only survive if they're inundated in load as not to dream or reflect on courses towards what "should have been"; gnarled and aged hands may aswell tell the story of "I shouldn't have talked to that Tin Man, no matter how seductive his voiced problems."
Alas for the world, so it goes, po-tee-weet, et cet, et cet, ad infinitum.
So I'll cut you a deal, chummer; put your fucking foot down, pull a finger out, leave yourself fifteen minutes a day to contemplate your gains and where you're going and wake up to your God Damned hellish existence of fueling an unachievable dream by whoring out your labourious self; it's just a waste of time to see when you realise that your prior thoughts of grandeur were just fodder for a child's preconceived visions of a greater meaning.
Fuck. You.
But do we dare take what they offer? A life bereft of the hedonism of choice, begetting the solitudious prohibation of extended horizons. The doors slam shut as time winds down, less possibilities, more "what ifs"; and essentially a life of regrets as we look t'ward greener pasteurs. To be content with what we have and where we're going is truly at the onus of all of those quaint little dreams we had in our quiet youths of rabble rousing for shits and giggles; we've grown old and our perceptions apparently depthened as we shift the focus from the constant instant pleasure to which we used to submerge ourselves in to erase the possibility of a dark sunset of impending monotony; said monotony is now.
However, in the streamlined path that we've chosen to follow due to it's yellowbrick appeal, we seem to have lost sight of where that goal was meant to be; all outlaying factors of "life" as that cloud'esque dream seem to unfurl in a cacophony of unsurities and insecurities. It's just another phase, a path to follow, a fork in the road becomes a sureset path, we've made our choices and this is now; excuse how vague I am, you'd understand if you had to put up with them this long.
The only thing fueling me at the moment is the gains that I've made; whenever I start to feel cocky, however, something is sure to knock me on my ass and shift the mindset to the precipice of self-loathing regret, for not taking the higher road to those oh-so-pretty rolling hills. Enough of the teen angst; for at least a minute - The gains that have been made have been momentous, the handouts have silver spooned this youthful rapscallion into a state of self-induced weakness; though, it is only a phase, it feels like a lifetime of repeating facets to what could be attributed to a gambler not cutting loose and making a dash when it was truly needed. Not to wallow in self pity, but just to get those little dreams back on track - Surely to stop wasting time, but never to be without time wasted; if one has no time to waste, how could they truly be living?
But that raises a tired old philosophical question: Is the application of self living, or is the contemplation and reflection over application? Depending on one's laurels, and where they rest, it's a sure sign that the dreamers can only fall beneath their lacklustre existence, and the workhorses may only survive if they're inundated in load as not to dream or reflect on courses towards what "should have been"; gnarled and aged hands may aswell tell the story of "I shouldn't have talked to that Tin Man, no matter how seductive his voiced problems."
Alas for the world, so it goes, po-tee-weet, et cet, et cet, ad infinitum.
So I'll cut you a deal, chummer; put your fucking foot down, pull a finger out, leave yourself fifteen minutes a day to contemplate your gains and where you're going and wake up to your God Damned hellish existence of fueling an unachievable dream by whoring out your labourious self; it's just a waste of time to see when you realise that your prior thoughts of grandeur were just fodder for a child's preconceived visions of a greater meaning.
Fuck. You.