hammer to fall.

When the world keeps spinning, it's hard to get a hold of your own head. In postulative theory, it is an ascertainable assumption that if your head did in fact fall off, it would bound endlessly around the planet, skipping from place to place. A tumbleweed of knowledge taking wing with dust storms from here to the western seas. Maybe it would gather knowledge, taking in the sights and sounds that it wasn't allowed to capture as a tenant of your body. It is feasible to consider that it would not, especially when one considers the brain damage that would be inflicted during any transportation sequence.

People around me are always striving, working against the grain to establish identity and individuality while still attempting to fit in with some larger group. Hopeless romantics rejecting love, claiming it as the ultimate scape goat for any separate longing or feeling. Love is cheap, hatred is cheaper, and grabbing for attention via either is child's play. I've been the guilty party before in this struggle, trying to find one by wielding the other. Fools often say that hate leads to hate and love leads to love. Consider the proposition that the subconscious depths of hatred can provoke the promiscuity of forbidden love, or that a failed attempt to love can lead to the darkest of hatreds. There is no hope for the hopeless romantic, for without hope there is only despair. Being labeled as such simply construes that the individual in question has no matter of sense what so ever.

I wish I could find my sea legs in this grown up world. I feel the constant wobble as I move through the commute and neck tie ravaged waters. Always impressing, never disappointing, building a resume while managing a time schedule, and constructing a future while digging a grave can destroy your sense of balance. The goal of every new thing brought into the world is to one day render something else obsolete. We design and build new houses, cars, and electronics to create a cutting edge, one sharp enough to sever the bonds between our former possessions. New children are born because one day we will need a workforce, and more importantly because we will one day all be obsolete.

I saw an old woman in the market the other day and started to consider her perception of the world. I often speculate as to how to grand I am as a person, and look back on a wealth of experiences for concrete evidence. Staring out from pale eyes that have been lodged in a weathered face for decades, I can not begin to fathom how young and inept I must appear. Thousands of conversations and struggles paced out over a century can not grant relevance in this day and age. Only the impression that the sun has set on her knowledge, only the promise that one day the youngest of us will be replaced can grant peace to the weary traveler. There will be relief in death. There will be rest at the end of the road. The smartest of us all just bide their time and wait for the hammer to fall.

As I try to get my sea legs and keep my head from rolling, there is one truth I cling to as a guiding light. That we are all on our way out, each is best served to soak up the experience that can be gained by rolling your head, wait in line, if you're an old woman avoid markets where young men might speculate about your thoughts, and that those who loaf around and wait for the end may in fact be the smartest of all.