Kusoyaro
02-17-2006, 07:31 AM
I wrote this, I was bored. I was comparing life to a road, whatever. The simplicity and vocabulary is intentional, btw.
I walk the streets. Alone, in many ways. Like everyone else. It is an extremely difficult and arduous undertaking. Sometimes the heat parches your throat, and you feel as if the sun is literally sucking the moisture out of your skin. But then, finally, a breeze rustles your clothes, and you stop and stand, basking in the caress of the wind. I pass ruined homes, dilapidated shanties and horrid ghettoes, and then mansions with huge expanses of lawn, and schools, libraries, and temples. I’ve been and out of them all.
Everyday I meet a stranger in my travels, and, upon parting, I feel as if I’ve lost a brother or sister, but I know I’ll meet someone new the next day. Occasionally, I run into them again, but the old friendship is never able to be rekindled. People grow and change, and one day your best friend will be someone different, and you’ll both move on. Enigmatic origins surround everyone on the streets, and, despite our best attempts at uncovering our pasts, we remain ignorant, our memories still repressed. That’s what makes it the worst, I guess - not having a clue as to why you are homeless. All we can do is try to find our way in the allegorical dark, and hope we do what we were supposed to.
I pass another park; the grass turned black from the wastes that issue forth from the large factory surrounding it. I think they make alcohol.
I see another gaping hole in the tarmac, filled with brown, viscous fluid, and it is somehow profane in the evening sun. I watch as people jump in.
My first hole was a long time ago. The hole, so appealing in its finality, had greater allure then. Almost too late, I realized the true nature of the pits, and have never since given them a second thought.
I am not so foolish as to remain unaware that this road, along with its unbelievable hardship and struggles, also has many beneficial facets. Along with the burden we carry, those who walk this road gain great wisdom - of birth, life, and death. I used to question as to the reasons why we were all walking this eternal path, but no one has the answer, so I just walk because there is nothing left to do.
Unless, of course, one counts the taverns, raves, and whorehouses that force their vileness down your throat, all the while screaming "What? Do you have a problem?!" These, and other such distractions.
And then, of course, there are the pits.
But most people walk. That’s our nature. We are fueled by curiosity. There are tales of an objective, a place where we must reach, and then we will never have to walk again. They say that we must not stray from the straight path, because this resting place only allows those who have suffered and toiled everyday, those who have never strayed. I don’t know if this is true. I don’t know when I will get there, or even if I will be admitted.
But, if reaching this place means never having to walk this ludicrous course again, I think I will decline. I like the walk.
I walk the streets. Alone, in many ways. Like everyone else. It is an extremely difficult and arduous undertaking. Sometimes the heat parches your throat, and you feel as if the sun is literally sucking the moisture out of your skin. But then, finally, a breeze rustles your clothes, and you stop and stand, basking in the caress of the wind. I pass ruined homes, dilapidated shanties and horrid ghettoes, and then mansions with huge expanses of lawn, and schools, libraries, and temples. I’ve been and out of them all.
Everyday I meet a stranger in my travels, and, upon parting, I feel as if I’ve lost a brother or sister, but I know I’ll meet someone new the next day. Occasionally, I run into them again, but the old friendship is never able to be rekindled. People grow and change, and one day your best friend will be someone different, and you’ll both move on. Enigmatic origins surround everyone on the streets, and, despite our best attempts at uncovering our pasts, we remain ignorant, our memories still repressed. That’s what makes it the worst, I guess - not having a clue as to why you are homeless. All we can do is try to find our way in the allegorical dark, and hope we do what we were supposed to.
I pass another park; the grass turned black from the wastes that issue forth from the large factory surrounding it. I think they make alcohol.
I see another gaping hole in the tarmac, filled with brown, viscous fluid, and it is somehow profane in the evening sun. I watch as people jump in.
My first hole was a long time ago. The hole, so appealing in its finality, had greater allure then. Almost too late, I realized the true nature of the pits, and have never since given them a second thought.
I am not so foolish as to remain unaware that this road, along with its unbelievable hardship and struggles, also has many beneficial facets. Along with the burden we carry, those who walk this road gain great wisdom - of birth, life, and death. I used to question as to the reasons why we were all walking this eternal path, but no one has the answer, so I just walk because there is nothing left to do.
Unless, of course, one counts the taverns, raves, and whorehouses that force their vileness down your throat, all the while screaming "What? Do you have a problem?!" These, and other such distractions.
And then, of course, there are the pits.
But most people walk. That’s our nature. We are fueled by curiosity. There are tales of an objective, a place where we must reach, and then we will never have to walk again. They say that we must not stray from the straight path, because this resting place only allows those who have suffered and toiled everyday, those who have never strayed. I don’t know if this is true. I don’t know when I will get there, or even if I will be admitted.
But, if reaching this place means never having to walk this ludicrous course again, I think I will decline. I like the walk.