Saturday, December 3, 2011

The Lost Generation

Today is one of those days where the sky looks like concrete and the sun is hidden behind an impregnable wall of oppression. Somewhere up there in the cosmos there are stars trying to get out, but they cannot escape. Somewhere on Earth, there is a little man who can't lift his head anymore, but he keeps trudging along.



Let us not forget him, for he endured so long. His ambitions were once defining elements of his being. Now, his being is centered around an inexplicable collapse of potential and "could have been." His eyes have that sagging quality-- all the luster of youth is gone and all that remains is a dark oyster shell that has been emptied of its valuables.



The simple act of showering or dressing or even waking now seems like an exercise in futility, a discourse against reason and sanity. His bed represents all that he seems to ever have actual dominion over anymore; the rest of the world just seems vast and unimaginable.



As a child, he could trace the borders of the globe in his imagination-- now, he merely laments and laughs at the irony that globes do not have corners. There is a world out there, but it's best left for someone more deserving to observe and experience. To him, they are just giant misshapen chunks of land that some gallivanting Marco Polo should stake a claim to. And there, like a pirate, he can quench his appetites on all of the spoils, riches, and philandering that he can stand.



That's the crux of it all; the world is a cruel, twisted, paradoxical joke; it turns its players against one another with rules in perpetual opposition and advice that is skewed and antiquated. For some, the world simply works. For others, even messianic capability and purpose cannot drive them towards achievement or success.



To those who do survive, it is not jealousy that the boy in his bed with the sunken eyes feels-- it is a lustful longing. He wishes to be you, but his vanity will not allow him to outright claim such. Because he has failed and you have not, he lashes out at you with great wrath. Like a glutton, he absorbs the failures and deconstructs them with apparent apathy. He has become a sloth, laying in his own depravity, waiting for a guiding light to release him. All of it derives from the most petty but simultaneously enduring of human desires-- greed.



He wants to have so that he can ascend some metaphorical mountain and shout down with arms spread wide at those who have hurt or wronged him. He wants to represent that idea, that idea that is so intrinsically American; "look at me now!" That is all we are-- vain, vapid, shuffling leeches that have no other need or desire than to validate ourselves to others-- because ourselves are despicable and unholy.



Even the Devil doesn't want us, for we are the lost generation.

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