So Very Tired
Monday, April 28th, 2003Tired imbues so many connotations that it’s difficult for the humble reader to ascertain of which tired the author bespeaks. Is it a tiring of the soul? of the occupation? or of the body, which connects all others?
This question and others haunt your humble life correspondent in these bewitching hours as many have throughout this night-time grand experiment. It’s like I’m jobless with a job, homeless with a home, and soulless with a soul. Forgive the redundancy but dear reader, I am so tired that time and space have molded into one. Breathing is heavy and laborious, movement and equilibrium are cruel, albeit lacking necessities, but in the sickest sense, the brain trecks onward.
Insomnia in its purest form is the culmination of these opposing forces. The brain, restless, the body numb, and the hippocampus lacking the ability to differentiate between the lot. Genetics can play cruel tricks on a being, but the brain can play much crueler games with the being as it exists. This is why, fair readers, psycho-analysts have jobs, teachers label students, and a certain, prescribed percentage of us will ever truly be what we wanted to when we grow up.
Fate, the government, and those at the top are just a few of the opposing forces to real progress. These foes pale in both comparison and significance to man’s own willingness to self-defeat. In essence, we are all but frogs in a slowly boiling pot.
I always found the connotation of the melting pot to be ironic in that sense, in those rare read between the lines subconcious senses that we all too often ignore, brush aside, or forgive for being subpar.
I take that back, to be is, in essence, to excel. Existence, the act of being’s conniving portrayer of the opposite whose title I cannot at the moment recall, gets blurred so effectively in this world that the two - under our legal systems and the systems of this democratic society within which we live, breathe, and fight - become equal.
For isn’t that the basic construent of our very own declaration of independence? “..we hold these truths to be self-evident.. that all men are created equal..” At times like these, dear reader I disagree with the baseness of this statement. At times when I’m tired, and poor, and in need of everything I haven’t yet accomplished. When such accomplishments can achieve an awesome visage, to the point of fixating your humble author within the very same caricature of a poor, witless deer facing death in the eyes of halogen headlights… everyone loses.
The government loses, because I - now angry at the very system so treasured throughout my years - rebuke that system, and live within my needs, neglecting the purchase of wares from other lands made by other poor souls; I neglect to blindfully imbibe in the ritualistic ad campaign and televisional narcolepsy - and at this pivotal moment of convergence, I lack value in this nation’s economy, gross domestic product, and tax structure.
I become UnAmerican by the new millenial definition of what it is to be American within America. Ironically, this attitude gives me a new purpose. A greater sense of clarity is obtained in these moments of rebuke. A clarity of self, of worth, and value, are for Middle Class America the equivalent of damnation in the highest order.
I am no longer a cog in the wheel of our new Service-Based Progress. I am a straggler, a foreigner.. in effect I’m a rebel.
Rebellion is what made this country. So many people with their big fortunes and sprawling estates forget that. Sure, they celebrate it when appropriate. When it impacts the bottom line of a service-based economy’s productivity they too, will wave their flags and chant their chants.
Do not fall victim dear reader. Subsequently, do not protest loudly - protest quietly. In dark rooms and in late nights when most are aslumber, plan your plans, dream your dreams, hold what you can before it too, is taken away, in the same silent subtlety that brought us here, now.
Maybe the reader is upset now. Maybe the reader has the reader’s favorite program playing quietly in the subconcious of this space in which we share. And quite possibly, the reader wonders why he’s reading onward. Are there answers to the burning questions that haunt the reader at these pivotal moments in life?
Does the author hold the key to such profundities? The answer is a clear and resounding yes. The author has each and every key and answer for his existence, and his profundities.
Whether his or the readers are the same, or whether the answers correlate, is something that will be determined in fair time. That is both my hook and line. Above all else, it’s a promise I plan to keep.