Monday, August 11, 2014

Desperation of Clarity, Clarity of Desperation

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I occasionally see glimpses of myself through the fog. Whether by music, poetry, literature, tea and solitude, or some other means, the life I see so far away is something blissfully undefinable.

Thoreau says, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," and I am one of this mass, painfully aware of the plight but ignorant of how to free myself. I suspect there is hard work involved, and the moving mass which surrounds me is actively resistant to my efforts to experiment with such work. And so I have spent the majority of my forty one years allowing its currents to flow through and carry me in ways that will keep me safely down in my duties. I fear the only way to free myself will be to hurt those I love around me. They know not the viciousness and ferocity with which they work to keep me held down in the place that was chosen for me, and because I love them, I allow this to happen every day, every year, every decade.

Til death do us part.


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