Broad knowledge, trivial knowledge, what does it matter as long as you please the bubbles on pieces of paper graded, determined-as my own life is- by cold and lifeless machines.
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Somehow, it seems terribly unfair, and ironic that lives of flesh and blood, human ideals and volition, be shaped by nuts and bolts and soldered wires ontop of silicon chips. They..they..why do they heed them? A shrug, a wane smile, yes, I know, I even understand, this is an imperfect world. And yet..as in all marred affairs, I dream of flawlessness.
Very little agony, very little importance you say, it is not so when you are sixteen years old and your whole life is pointed one way..just because..just because..there's one lone bridge swaying in the high air on top of a windswept gorge. If only there's a river underneath, then I might jump, jump and float away with the currents, or die trying. The horizon is narrow, for the earth is small and lonely in this wide space, long ago, while a small girl, I realized this with a child's acceptance.
As the world would naysay me in all my natural aspirations, so it does in this matter. Fear glances downward, far away for some future moment, the ground is hard, jagged, leading no where; a foul stench invades my senses.
Give up, give what up? The precarious state of my being, coalesced by dreams, words and images born out of desperation, and, dare I say it- hope? If only I could still my head and its many torrential thoughts.
Stop, perhaps I should say to myself, make use of your time- if you are to beat machines, you must become a machine. Ah..that platitude. Pedantic, rote-minded, unsophisticated, uncultivated, would it matter if they lead to success? End all perusals of the trivialities, the expensive idlenss of life, things one would never need...abandon esoteric knowledge, untalented art, gross writings, and that world, those infatuations with the impossible, with the dead and gone and never have been and never will be.
But can I? Childish fancies, a teenager's stormy angst- poems, stories, all unfinished, all unprofitable- hense useless.
Holding the bated breath, knuckles white, fingers clinging onto the filigree of handrails. Dear God, don't let me fall...I will to reach the other side and yet to keep myself at the same time.
The conscious shape reality.