Kid’s Table

It is a silent city’s final consequence, burdened by the feathered weight of a damaged angel’s broken wings.  Under the unexpected wreckage echoes a familiar, righteous wail, desperately screaming for an answer to what memories still live behind yellow eyes.

Jaundiced cowardice.  Inebriated discoloration.  What matters the label when the world still burns and coughs, sputtering deathbed confessions ultimately destined for publication, much to the scavenging crowd’s grim delight?  What context can be teased from a final calculation when the underlying equation itself makes no sense?

Everyone seems distracted in their naked delight witnessing the carnal carnival of someone else’s total collapse; everybody wanna see a falling star.  Distant disasters distractingly entertain and obfuscate, forcing the focus from introspective injustices to a more entertainingly contaminated conflagration.

Because marriages burn.  Relationships break.  Promises shatter.  And people tend to gorge themselves endlessly on the sweetness bleeding from the brittle collapse of another’s fall.

It’s a horrible frenzy of emotionally charged feeding, consuming ego and Id in equal measure.  Calculated randomness.  Indiscriminate precision.  A haphazardly chaotic ballet, somehow beautifully finding lean balance amidst the unpredictable orchestra’s rhythm of possibility.

And we ridiculously nourish that symphony of mutual connection and make it somehow worse with our constant, toxic excretions.  We consciously scam and lie and interfere until people seem to lose any tangible substance in this compulsively-clicked, over-memed existence.

There are no pure angels in a crowd of tainted devils.  There are no cleansing baptismals found in a sea of persistent sin.  There is no purifying light of illumination in a world of self-imposed ignorance.

There is only us.  Unified by our inherent fragility.  Tethered uniquely by our indistinguishable simplicity.  Bound universally by our identical foundation of a banging universe’s first spark.

Our vision should not be so narrowly focused on short term, meaningless minutiae.  Our strength should not be undermined by carrying the weight of the failed generation’s rotting corpses.  Our intelligence should not be closeted by the bigotry of our pernicious preconceptions.

That vision should instead be grander, fueled by the burning heat of our limitless persistence.  That strength should be purposefully targeted for a more satisfying finality.  The brilliance of that intelligence should decontaminate and sterilize the impurity of our too many imperfections.

I yearn for a cleanliness I have never really known.  I ache for an embracing closeness I have yet to touch.  I hunger for a genuine experience yet to cross my appetite.

There is still drive enough left within my weakening frame to push ceaselessly for that better conclusion.  There are still blank pages aching to be filled that taunt and tease, curling back towards the idea of those new experiences, just daring to be caught.  And I want to capture them all.

Then nail them to the world for all to absorb in a selfless crucifixion of my better intentions.

Because even the smallest act of art should matter. The simple feat of creating something, where once there had only been nothingness, should bring a singular beauty to a barren landscape devoid of any real sustenance.  Because we are all obviously starving for something.

I would rather see that hunger satiated with something more substantive than the additive toxicity so often served as the day’s main course. I would prefer a more lasting and meaningful celebration, a tangible banquet of crisp simplicity universally shared to the benefit of our broken angels.

Until I get my fill, I will simply have to keep chasing down those pages.  And then finding words enough to fill them.

Maybe if I catch enough clever phrases, perhaps it will finally earn me a seat at that elusive “grown up” table of artistic integrity.  I have grown weary of the juvenile instability of the kid’s table, always pushed to the periphery and barely within earshot of the meaningful conversation.

Because there is so very much more that I need to say…

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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