It’s a fallacy to believe that the summit is reached solely through persistent ascension. Life’s truest form is an enigmatic ruse. Struggle is a vertical nor horizontal bearing, ‘tis not dynamic or stagnant, it can be in one place or many, within or without, inside and out. Existing in everything and everyone, sharing an equal indifference to either one. Unconcerned. Unrelenting. Unindulgent. Yet, we who perceive continue to be deceived. What trick was ever so foul that could mortally wound a species founded upon its innate curiosity? Brash is the writer who lives vicarious through the sight betwixt his own. “Who am I?” He writes not to question why nothing is ever ours for very long; time is far too intelligible to entrust a dying breed with such revelations. Our sight is a gift that’s far too often squandered on such a patient foe. Instead the question is if time is really even our own to begin with. You are here because you feel as though you are, but where exactly is here and who exactly are you? We mustn’t waste the brief life we’re given on recounting the passing moments that we’re allowed to see. We’re given a telescope to view into the vastly infinite abyss that was forged for us, yet seemingly forget that it was not forged by us. As far as the eye can see, is not far enough to see the eye in the sky that watches us squiggling about beneath a microscope. This is the struggle we face. Not who we are, why we’re here, what is life; time will make sure we fixate ourselves on these trivial matters and never truly utilize our gift. Instead we must use our sight to write. Eloquently. Passionately. Imprudently. Who is out there to take offense, when life has been designed to offend us. This dalliance is not personal to the constructs that were designed to keep us here. yet we are so easily slighted by every inconvenience we encounter along the way. Do not go directly towards the summit. The questions you face and struggles you embrace are not solely your own. They’ve been conceived and pursued by the generations that have come and gone before you. Those who failed found a place to rest their burdened minds, and those who succeeded have yet to reach the summit. If it were an obtainable destination and one did make it there, surely they would come to share its glory with us, if not for their own vainglory. Despite it all you must live in spite of it all, for those who take on the toughest plights will soar. Not for wanting, but want for something, I’m sure there is no greater height to implore. Although I’m filled with a sense of doubt, I’ve found the strength to scribble this out. Telling you who’s so concerned with the summit of what this life is all about, that you may forget to appreciate the meaningful certainties along the route.
Buckle up b*tches