the perception i hold of myself greatly differs from the aura others see. they don’t have access to the expanding library of my thoughts and emotions. due to this lack of clearance, i wonder what they see when they look at two brown eyes with locked doors in their irises. is it intimidation, fear, mystery; or pity, pleading, misery?
the person i choose to be is who they see, but the individual i am is the identity i grapple with for control, nonstop. my need for control and manipulation makes this acquisition quite trivial. i wish to be an absolute dictator over an expansive, illusion-filled land that does not abide by the rules of property. in each pursuit for stakes and claims, it drops morals behind it; eventually, i pick one up. when i read its lesson, it’s comprehended with an existence of prior knowledge, though i didn’t know i had it. but soon enough, my grip weakens and the scrap flies out of my grasp by the high winds of a restless consciousness. i’m then back in the hunt for conquest.
to simply let the gusts sway me left or right like a dandelion, i’d have to completely change who i am, which is the faulty transformation this metadata is hoping to prevent. the goal is not to disassemble and order new supplies.
if i want to slow down this goose chase, at least long enough for me to acknowledge the fallacy, i have to adjust my pace to one slower than my mouse. as rabbits, humans sprint from one idea to the next, compelled by competitive survival and endorphin kicks. i must become the prehistoric bird soaring around its playground like a smooth-flying drone. in this state, i have the ability to zoom from point to point, but i choose to perch on expansive viewpoints and stretch my wings. i circle targets, but hold off until their dead before closing in and feasting on cooling embers.
continuing this appraisal of my inner-vulture, it has the ability to resurrect its prey, so it can follow the same hunt over and over again. but i’ve been warned by previous attempts of necromancy that the meal will get boring, so much so that, eventually, i’ll decline the rabid impulse to dart toward spilt blood. this is where the mistake boars its consequences.
if i’m no longer driven to extinguish my objectives, they begin to run amuck. soon enough, they’ve reproduced exponentially, and i’ve become the weaker prey. this transformation turns the environment back into a deadly atmosphere of survival.
over time, i’ll slay every last one of them.
but then i’ll collapse into the desire to bring them back into rotation, tired of the peaceful quiet. here we observe the cycle erupting its renewal.
strangely enough, there are no witnesses to this act of torture. there are only victims and enablers, both one and the same. people don’t watch my sky because they’re gliding on the clouds of their own big blue.
but maybe i can borrow a minute from the game, through a timeout, to check on the progress of others. recognizing their aerial dogfight helps me see mine in a refreshed light.
although we’re all drafted into the global army, a ceasefire is the only weapon powerful enough to defy the forces of nature. what will it take to get one?
– D K T