Nights on a sleepless train, passing through places familiar and those unfamiliar as well. As we speed through the night I think I may be, but I am never really sure that I am me. How superficial is the normal life? How important is life that is not normal? Am I contemplating things past, present, and future that really matter? Are those who do not, wasting precious time?
I woke up every day, heading out into the daylight. Figures emerged from the corners and shadows, mocking my movements to blend in. They created a cadence that allowed them to project ideas and direction that I felt were my own. They tied me to the table in which contract after contract was written that would ensure that I could never know what was true. More so, I would always think the problem was me.
As I sat in the dark room in which I could barely see the outlines of the things around me, there were knocks on the door which I thought were my rescue. I always hoped that one of those times, someone smash the door down, ending this indentured servitude. But it never happened.
Despite the train moving in many directions through the night, I can really only move in one direction. I think I know why I keep getting on the train. I believe that I have always been aware and I want to know that all the years that I was bound to that table I knew something and was contemplating something that fits into the puzzle today. Yes, I understand that if I am looking for a return on investment, the very fact that I am who I am today would be enough. It is because of the great thief time, that I hunt for more substance. I seem to have been born to compete with time.
There are 8 billion others around me and yet, the airwaves report there is trouble on the horizon and even though there are answers, we just have to look through the glass and learn. It is then the glass is stirred into a vortex of propaganda and predatorial conformity. Just like the man selling his miracle product in a bottle, he promises that we can be as normal as everyone else. What a terrible thing to want to be.
As the seasons changed I walked wearily into another city that clearly had been scorched earlier. As I walked along the road there were pretty flowers growing through the cracks. They could grow even more, perhaps even into trees, all they wanted was my attention. I wanted to give it, after all, what is the harm?
It is not likely that one could be hit by a meteor and get knocked off course, but thankfully I was. When I woke up I could see that the flowers were parasites and the ground was laden with traps. The very air was poison and the sun was deadly. Everyone was walking abound unaware of the parasites attached to them and the chains on their feet. It made me sick, and it made me angry. I vowed to not go back. Despite being raised in a world where I was told all of this was normal and that I could never get away from it, I know now that it is a lie. I am not playing anymore. I know where I am.
