Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Not One Of Independence, But Of Dependent Service...

What used to be the buzz of a million Krynn dragons in my mind, is now a housefly. What used to be an enormous fire, is now an smoky ember. What used to be the rebounding echo of a preying bats squeak, is now the gnat flitting around in the same dark cave. What used to be Voltron is now, just Pidge making Anime faces.

I move in slow motion. You still move slower. The air is electric, but I am stagnant. The doses of pain administered to me are nothing - one can't take more out of the frontal lobe after the initial operation. It's hard to make a lame horse run faster, no matter how hard you crack the whip.

Steve Rogers was trapped in time. He awoke to a different age and adapted quickly because circumstances demanded it. The Vision has been resurrected as many times as Ultron. Comic book characters make Jesus jealous. Jason Todd tried to make a comeback, but couldn't find all of his parts. It's hard to walk, when bits of your flesh deck the hall like boughs of holly. ttralalalalalalalalaaaahhh

Reading Bushido: The Soul Of Japan and Replay by Ken Grimwood.

One deals with the outdated codes and ethics of historical samurai culture and one deals with a guy who gets the chance to relive his life after he's died. This might tell me something. This might tell me that all of the answers to my questions are obvious. That everything that you think you know - you do. That nothing is easy, and anything is only hard - if you care. This might tell me that if I'm so tired, that I need to either give up and have fun, roll with the punches, throw a thematical party now and then and sleep as long as possible, or to train myself not to RE remember how I used to be. Because who the hell wants to be like they were? Especially if we're apparently alive enough to lament about the passing of youth, time, love, money, Thundercats, etc.?

No, what we need is either a slow awakening or our skulls crushed whilst dreaming. There is no in-between. That only leads to more wasted time. I am Luke Skywalker's cut off arm. I am Daniel Ketch on fire. I am the hunger pangs of Gandhi. I am Phillip Morris' pocketbook. Why can't I have the persistence of my pulse? Why shouldn't I fight as hard as my asthmatic lungs? Why fight?

Don't know.

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