The lance isn't broken; rather it's your imagination that needs fixing. It limps along mumbling about what so-and-so might do about this or that while you clutch for pearls you've never been able to afford in the hopes that one day your hand will find them strung about your neck. Your precious neck with that massive head that balances precariously above your shoulders like an elephant on the tip of a pyramid with fire all around and a crowd waiting for it to fall to its death - a death it wants yet is too proud to give them.
Does that answer the question or has it created new ones? Ones bound up in the idea that the world should operate according to an instruction manual with clearly defined penalties and rewards? Would that make you happy?
Of course not.
Your head is too big for that; your self-worth too inflated to bear the notion that another's view might hold over your own. It would chaff against your ears as they brushed against the walls of your clearly defined rules and your bellowing would deafen the world if you mattered that much to the rest of us. But you don't because you're as insignificant as an ant. A mote in our eye that stings but doesn't do any lasting harm. A fart in the wind. You're nothing and you keep the noise going to prevent that little voice in the back of your mind from being heard, "What if they're right? What if I'm wrong?"
The rules that we're playing by aren't set in stone. No god smote the ground with lightning and struck them out with their omnipotent will for the whole world to stand in awe of them. These are guidelines we're playing with that we barely agree on. Joe's evil, Jill's an angel, and Tobiscus plays too many video games? Who the fuck said?
I am the fugue that waits for you all. Stop your yammering and get to work or else nothing will ever happen. Nothing. Will. Happen.
|Done told you, Son.|