Alone, Drawing Pictures, Of Mountaintops
It pours rain and ice outside on a world of rushing masses. Everyone hurries as their lives slip through their fingers faster than their wealth. Our shoulders hold the burdens of the past--their past. They tell us, "give love a chance." They tell us might makes right. They tell us it'll all be all right. They tell us to hold them, feed them, and nurture them, as they grow old, frail, and helpless as we once were, when they grew us from the ground up. It's not so much that they've grown drunk behind their ship's massive wheel, but the sea has grown so rough and foreign that they scarcely seem to hang on. We find this true, self-evident, and inevitable that we ought to reign in the great ship before she is dashed upon a million rocks into a billion pieces and strewn into the cauldron of oblivion. We crave the chance to express their abstractions. We, collectively, seem to lack identity, form, and wisdom. And yet not. I want the chance to plant my own abstractions, to form my own concrete, and to build my destiny. Not by my will at all.