As monumental my success, I am dead. The world relieves its joy in too small amounts, leaving me feeling wasted for the majority. Different seasons arouse me each day playing havoc with my heightened senses. These senses, sense of self and sun reliance, moves within me to write these proxies marred with tar. So driven from me thence I breathe through capsules made of darkness.
I’m a gladiator of terms, crawling through the arena of life at a snails pace; but I’m ever precise in my actions. The enemy is spurned by my will, aggressing unhappily in the same environment I’ve shuttered. There is no public opinion or child-like envy for what I’ve done, and thus he’s trapped in privacy’s revolving door.
These episodes are righteous in the eyes of my mothers, but piteous to my all-consuming fathers who control my din. The nurturer and the lecturer provide me with a balance that’s solely theoretical. My dreams are influenced by my experiences, and my experiences are triggered by my consciousness; where few thoughts can linger for long after I’ve crushed false pretenses, for I am the maker of my reality.
This anomaly sires my greater power, raising me above such petty deficiencies. My character is won from lost innocence and molded truth. I am cleverer than my teachers and bear no memory of my mentor; and it’s debatable whether I really ever had one at all. I am master of my universe, for nothing has ever proved to be more worthy of my respect to claim this title.
My only wife is discovery, leaving the restless curious. I spend the moments in-between wicked, gleaning from the trials of temptation. My partners like to try and dissect me, but none has had much success. The common end is dismissal from being too complex, and so I take them again leaving them baffled in my strange delight. I look up at the cosmos hours later and reflect, wondering if anything up there was paying attention.
I yearn for something more but can’t describe it better. The hollow inside my breast becomes hallow as I suspect the golden, hidden chamber waiting to be uncovered. My temper fluctuates between frustrated and eager, and I find myself mired in empty space in search of it. At the end of each day I reach only one satisfying solution, that maybe it will find me first.
