I call for you, yet you cannot be named. I study you, though I can never truly know all of you. You’re abrasive and uncompromising, that’s simply a part of your gentle nature. Just as everything has gone completely wrong, I find myself thinking I have finally got it right.
Looking around we are a collective of individuals. Celebrating our distinction with the latest trending accessories. There is a mundane comfort found in the conflict of polar extremes. One can simply xerox whatever originality we think makes us unique.
I struggle to understand the purpose of the denial of this life; bartering it to embrace an unseen next. Is this manifestation of delusion caused by the inevitable strife endured by unsuspecting victims or an over-indulgence of fetish by the listless predator? What I find is a lack of spirit within the self-professed spiritual. An article of faith being propagated by the unfaithful. The deeply self-absorbed evangelizing a message of goodwill and selflessness.
So delicate is the harsh measurement taken of equilibrium. It is by design that chaos becomes the unanticipated order. Is it expected that those who preach the overman are often underachievers? Why do so many empty words seem to hold such tremendous weight? When does a hollow idol fill the cathedral with such nurture for the soul?
The fulcrum seems so exceedingly undecided, yet I know; tis affixed in it’s place. With no gold standard to follow, what value is offered seems to quickly fade. Without the integrity of character, words like “on my honor” are only spoken in lip-service. Thus a teacher without a curriculum to instruct.
In Her Beauty,
T.C. Downey
About The Author
