Oh, how I love that wall!
My wall, your wall, his wall, our wall...
Solid before many a starry-eyed soul.
Tossing square into a granite fortress,
The ashen stoniness denying access,
Ouch! Got your head in a mangled mess?
It was all there yet you didn’t see.
That grim jester of far-gone fantasy.
Next comes the swat without courtesy.
That proud wall, high and tall,
Didn’t even think you were a sore,
When you burst and lost in a ghastly gore.
No dirge to the swatted little fly,
No litany for a crushed buzzing lie,
No reason even for a sad little cry.
That wise wall, high and nigh,
Didn’t bat an eye or even sigh,
While pranking your sad foolish try.
Small like a fly before big delusions,
**** like a fly in alluring confusions,
Such a wasted lie on a wall’s exclusions.
Realism will always soar,
And never notice that vapid gore,
On that proud wise wall.
Sometimes you hear a knock on your door when that little voice of reality eventually winds its way back to you through the hubbub and turmoil of your delusion-spurred emotions. Yet, you realize, over time it has grown so big and your eidolons are suddenly micrified to the reality of a mere fly. And the swat... how sovereign... how overbearing reality is! The swat may even come by the hands of the kindest person you have known. Reality busts the dark fly, the Kafkaesque metamorphosis of an otherwise rational man, in order to let him reincarnate into a being with a realistic orientation so that he can soar over the trammelling confines of his delusions... So not all blows are meant to obliterate, some really do liberate. And what better hand to deliver the blow than that of a kind, merciful person? The fly, with his gibberish, make-believe buzz should not encroach upon the righteous order of reality. And there rises the wall and checks the fly until the swat comes with efficient finality.
Now, this mashed up fly-man has to break loose from that crushed, sticky paste of his delusions and leave it on the wall. Not easy enough a labour for all! But realism is only for the strong with which to soar.
So how can a man end up being a fly?
Delusion besodden though a man might be, he is nevertheless faintly aware of that feeble call of reality. No one can shut their ears fast to that child. And this call of reality betrays all false hues of our delusional sandcastles. The bigger our delusions, the smaller our self esteem when we realise that we have veered far into that world of delusions. The more beautiful the delusion, the uglier the fly. And the wall... Every starry-eyed fool needs that wall. Somebody has to stop that fly.