Do you have any conception as to the pain of having every aspiration the world can offer all the while knowing that you cannot satisfy a single one? That limitation are firmly set, unchangeable eternally for you? This, I tell you, is the greatest torment ever to be borne and I challenge anyone who says otherwise. Civilization's well being is assured when it can produce such squalid feelings. The sense of helplessness permeating an entire life, it is terrible though never deadly. It forces you to live, giving you great hope and dashes it, repeatedly, into infinite fine pieces, glaring mockingly from the glassy floor where they lie. Such mocking eyes, piercingly bright, seeing so deep within you until every atom of your being rises in revolt, tumbling in a myriad mass of fading gray.
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To live within this world, all the while knowing you despise it beyond possibility that you hate it with every fiber your soul, simply because- you believe in something much beyond that, a more fantastical place, where you are appeased of every want and desire, that you are free at last, to be truly who you are, combining all the natures inside the self that you had carefully cultivated- it is disgraceful to all dignity and honor ever to enter the human mind. Being here, as daily suppression grow, bending and molding for no specific purpose can make the most sane and mundane person ever to be alive, dead with righteous anger.
Yet you will not die, none of us will die until the end of the world as you know it ends, inside fiery furnace or cold blackness, a matter of timing merely. Fed by the world, our daily bread, knowledge and history, and free-will to eat, to indulge, to abstain, to starve, to be anorexic or to be bulimic, what irony! You are given curiosity, the mark of our species, you are given a free-will, the divine intervention, yet we are expected to be swayed by a world not of our own choosing, to be tailored according to it or else, suffer. The raw material, a hungry soul, manipulated and exploited beyond the bounds of human reason is all your existence guaranteed; a lucrative venture in human capital that you are always, if you are lucky, ignorant of.
You have learnt, yet, inside the young years, naive to the point of idiocy, or perhaps, idiocy is what you are truly supposed to achieve. An unbridled obedience and ignorance, for, you must know, "nothing knows everything." How much confounded thoughts you could have been spared? How much needless, soon forgotten, or scarring wounds? Raw, dripping with blood, akin to the experiments of Dr. Moreau, you are becoming human through pain, human according to an inhumane world.
Gifted to understand, gifted to analyze, gifted with ardent desires has now coupled most grossly with misfortune and pure inability brought on by none other than chance, as the fates will have it. O yes, genetics, birth, moving electrons that massless thing controls all. Yet you know, you know so much that it all became bitter. The sweet nectar of the pure joy of thought, the mellifluous voices of characters and personalities speaking through time, they become dry ash as reality assails. You see so clearly, what it can be, "it can" you say, it must.
Liberty and justice for all, a common example. You know what it is, You can envision it, but the tired, starving, dirty masses are looking at you with pleading eyes, innocent eyes, blue and brown amidst faces clean and muddy. Social equality, you desire it, you know it is perfect. Yet the people, those complacent cruel smiles, their faces crooked and round, their natures tactfully hidden yet so painfully obvious. Albeit the scales of things are much smaller in an individual, the principles remain. You studied, learnt, understood, thought, found, dreamed, failed, tried, failed, tried, failed, and tried and failed and tried until you finally realizes, to your determinate self's horror, there are limitations purposely imposed upon unbridled dreams and dreamers.
Those who won never cared for any "high noble ideals", they are enjoying a regimen, yes, enjoying a regimen, set down by the world, they are of the world. They are the few that are born into it, fully bloated with all the preparations predestiny gave them. You watch their happy march, up that lofty scaffold toward a ceiling they can never truly appreciate nor render more beautiful. You watch them poke and prod at the lose plaster, you watch delicate fingers tearing at the fine paint. You are aware that some of them are less or more violent than others.
They are fighting among themselves, yet none will topple over, for the cage is closed. You look up, open mouthed, hopeless longing in your molten eyes, arms upwards, hoping the ladder will come down again, for you, hoping that the heavy doors will open and let you out.
Oh anywhere but here, you beg. You are so tired but still you desire the high spots, there is nothing else. You appeal with one last plead as those above you continue their daily squawking badinage. The rude gray walls around you, the listless people around you, they are coming closer, you are trapped than even more before, strange, alien limbs pressing in. You can feel their loose heat engulfing you, your breath loosing hold, the colors going out of your cheeks bit by bit. The day is waning, the clerestory spills a brilliant orange in that you reach your fingers to grasp, a desperate ethereal hold. You cannot stand anymore, you fell against the gray shoulder and heads around you, a shadow of what you had dreamt to be not so long ago. But your eyes remain, the windows of the soul, eternally it is crying for the ladder, for the door.
The conscious shape reality.