THE NON-WORKING HOURS OF AN OPTIMISTIC CYNASIST
A brief analysis of the Souls yearning for Freedom
Serious paid work is a game played largely by recent graduates and vagrant jackals. Nomadic searchers who find themselves wired into the Beast’s machinery at an increasingly early age, whilst lacking in the potent minerals required to cut loose and plunge, hard and fast, into a life lived from numb lows, through darkened transient corridors, to eventual karmic highs. A hellfire journey of pain, glory, and hideous ironies, wasted, for the best part, on the young, dumb, and furiously impatient.
It would be easy, though unfair, to suggest that the Nine to Five hours do nothing to enhance my passage through this life. They do, after all, finance my iron-rich diet of creative technologies and shamanic medicines; without which I would surely wither and die. This being the case, one must always endeavor to strike a fine balance between Work and Life; only ever bending over and quietly accepting the blue-veined meat-package when utterly essential to the overall plan; when the last distress flare has been fired high into the midnight sky, all telephone lines severed, and the radio smashed to pieces by marauding corporate brutes.
It goes without saying that Real Work can never be achieved in the workplace, and Nine to Five, Monday through Friday, is my penance for the hunting of Dreams. An unsightly filler. The annoying background noise during another late-night recital by my choir of Personal Angels. A necessary evil; maligned, resented, but tolerated as a temporary contractual obligation. These are my cards, the hand I’ve been dealt; far from the prettiest, but the pot is huge and the chances, to a man of my philosophy, are particularly favorable.
For my time always comes, when the reins are loosened, just enough, to allow my Soul to scream off toward the skies in pulsing streams of Wonder; delivering me, breathless, to places and potentials I had never before considered.
And for this I give thanks. For this I live. For the separation. For the space in my head. For the light, the music, the spark. For the endless circles. For love and astonishment. For the end justifying the means.
And the only thing that keeps me climbing, fearless and assured, is the thought that nothing can be irrefutably confirmed.
Nothing.
The lines on the map. The words in the book. The stars in the sky.
Nothing.
All is but mere conjecture; suppositions layered between hypotheses and assumptions based on the same Aristotelian logic being cluster fucked, in seedy cut-rate motels, by cutting-edge quantum mechanics.
Two plus two, may not make four. And my interest is once more renewed.
And I set my week-day alarm for the ungodly hour of 7.30am, at peace, for now, in the understanding that time may well be meaningless.
Content to wait, for next weekend, before stumbling upon anything more definitive…
About fent11111
Lots of good prose here. I particularly like "…young, dumb, and furiously impatient."