Awakenings

I hope to one day wake up from reading shitty arguments on the internet. I hope to wake up from a society where wishful thinking, cut with a fine dose of bigotry, cut with plenty of rotted-away organs of empathy dictates social policy. I hope to wake up, and become more fully formed, free of the apotropaic magic I turn to in my darker moments (knocking on wood, or projecting onto indiosyncratic idols), free of the burning stings of passion that draw me back in, back into the maelstrom, back into a categorical helplessness before Being.

I hope to grow into my city further, like a creeping vine around a lightpost. I hope to draw inspiration from these bricks and alleys, these people, the sky, the towers, the dells, the ravines and the streetcars. Like I used to, before mid-twenty hit and I found myself trying, desperately (thankfully successfully), to work to pay for shit. Mid twenties, where I dropped my various askeses to let mysefl get jerked around, regrowing the attitude of circa age 20.

Ah, it is one thing to wake up from all this. But what do I wake up to? To poetry loking at me from behind everything. This is the task, besides which there can be few others. (Oh sure, prefessional sinecures here and there, friendships and love, obligations.) Ah, but to live those obligaitons while still listening to the things speak to me constantly, in all their as-they-are-ness. There's the goal. The goal of this existential gym. And I recognize the ideal-nature of this goal, and I recognize the self in all this. But, alas, I am all that.

Consider: "Management is doing things right; leadership is doing the right things. "