Small Measure

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You live a little, form some small ambitions, construct ideals for the ego, and accept the world. 

When quietude creeps in at midnight, you fright for the empty streets. The hollow, cartoonish happiness that oozes from every walking person is drowning you. 

When society pours its constructs into you, you hide away from these imploding influences. 

Yet at the crack of dawn, you rise sluggishly to face the world again.

>  You dream of days of youth not because you were careless and free, but because you were never truly integrated into society. To you, the world does not matter; to the world, you do not exist.

From timid nods to firm handshakes, you progress as the wind blows. After all, you are a crop to be harvested from years of indoctrination. 

Others may oblige willingly, but you don't. You dream of tearing down the machine, hoping that in the end, it will be you that finds the Achilles' heels of this monster— but you never do. 

Hail philosophers and polymaths alike, they solve society's most mystifying paradoxes. Even they can not fathom the power from your mind's tempest. However, you do not act upon it— no, you remain idle and line up for the next meal. You have considered the definition of conscious living, but you withdraw from the ludicrous wonder of the metaphysical. 

>  You think that if you suppress this desire, then you would fit in with society better somehow someday. But someday never came, not when you discover the wrinkles under your eye nor when you realize that the last year has been a blur. 

Recluses do not measure time as we do, but rather by their generation of thoughts to make peace with one's existence. They detest the quantification of living by the amount of time they have left or have spent. You have thought about becoming a recluse, and depart from the gushing metropolis at once— but you dread change. 

You constantly resist the idea of change, but you grow adapted once the change becomes imperative.

 >  You do not fear freedom, but you fear the possibility of a better self that has freedom. 

To you, love is a dainty plaything for the fawning youths. You see more and more of your surroundings fall in love, but you doubt it is a rush of heart more than a rush for completing an obligation. 

A sentimental creature like you has no fanciful arts in this nature, for you value the abstract more than the concrete. 

Yet this world has no place for you, you do not categorize into a label. 

Although it is tantalizing for Atlas to put down the weight of the world, he knows he will be crushed once he does. Such is the paradox of obligation— the narrow path of the given choices often blinds the agent into thinking he has none. 

And so you spend your days pondering for an impossible realm, one that rivals Milton and Goethe.


You do breathe some truths when you smile, and— it may be hidden to others— one may see a flicker of that small measure of heaven in you.



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