Thursday, March 15, 2007

The sad deceipt of maturity.

I was an earnest boy. Deep in thought, nose in book, mind racing, plotting and planning, scheming and scholarly. I spoke to adults and they returned the favour with respect. I listened, I learned and everything was collated into an encyclopedic translation of what it meant to be alive. I had faith, I trusted, in myself, and my imagination - my greatest ally and truest friend. But even the best friends move on, and leave you with an empty feeling, as though all they were ever, was a memory, a blanket of companionship tossed aside during a restless night. Now my imagination visits me in the night, and whispers in my ear, and if I'm lucky it's warm and friendly and inspiring, and if I'm unlucky then, well, so are you.

I began to notice girls, and at first, I tried my best to communicate my premature wisdom, tried to find a girl who would sit, and read, and listen as I spoke of Japan, and Homer, and Monty Python, and why I loved what I loved, tried to gently caress that spark with a gentle breath of friendship, openness, meaning.

But all I found in those formative years was cynicism, superficiality and eyes that flicked right and left as a boy old enough to strut and buck Coltish machismo swung toward us, behind me, and click, click, click, with the fingers, and boom with the baby baritone, it no longer mattered what was real, for every day was Spring and a whole generation was in bloom, ready to seed and be polinated.

Slowly, that persona began to cloak me. As the words which had found no use began to evaporate, steamed by the heat of a lustful star, an entire personality shed and left behind as the adder broke forth and slimy, slithered into the snake that the young man would take as his form. And sadly, it worked. Falsehood reaping rewards the grim young lad had read of, but was yet to be atrophied by.

That boy has lain in a coma ever since, the occasional flicker and spit here or there, as the world opened its petals and hovering, he began to drink his fill of the nectars within. THIS is living, he cried, I cried, I felt, as experience held sway over naivety and wisdom, and patience was beat fair and square by the veteran, immediacy.

I took, I was taken. I tasted, and I tantalised, terrorised and fantasised. I grew younger with each year that passed, and was blinded by adulthood, never bothering to look down and see my own footprints in the sands, leading forever a circle, a path forged of inertia, and I unable to slow the steady pace of my own mass. Onwards, in an eternal decaying orbit.

That young boy, that funny little guy, so serious, so knowing, so true. Lying in the past, the first casualty of the war within.

In rememberance.

1 comment:

  1. He's not really gone. He's just been hiding, wisely, watching and waiting for the right time to make himself visable. There's nothing wrong with a little wait-n-see. That's what the cleverest creatures do before they pounce.