Opportunity. What does this mean?
I scour the subdivisions of the daily news.
I peruse the specialty sites, truly believing
That an ad will be placed especially for me,
Yet, as it is each time, each and every time, the
Thimble is no place near the etui.
Fate. Should I believe in such a concept?
I want to, I really do. Yet I wonder what sort of
Karmic crimes I had previously committed to
Justify such a course road. Doing so barefoot is
Also something I question deeply.
Arrogance. Perhaps our previous accomplishments
Paint the veneer with a certain stroke of bravado. Perhaps
We gingerly strut through half-opened doors, expecting a chorus of welcoming faces, privileged to be in such proximity.
The truth is, there is no truth. There is only that which is present currently. Understanding the nature of such truths is fine, but in this frame of reference, we cannot, without exception, believe present knowledge will translate to future realities.
No, truth is but a crime upon the senses, dulling the blade we once swung with the most violent of intensity. Truth creates complacency. Complacency prompts atrophy. Atrophy increases the probability of something bad happening, to our externality, which even the most confident, will eventually begun to question that which lives within.
Life believes itself reliable, even decent, all because it levees such precautionary tales before any of its advertisements promoting scope-altering opportunities. All of these endeavors are poked and prodded with simple disclaimers. Everyone’s always worried about the aftermath. Is it any wonder no one truly reads the fine print? And then we wonder why surprises negatively impact our present realities. Perhaps it has something to do with apathy. Maybe it’s misguidance, but probably something closer to what I can only describe as a mixed bag of conditioned blindness and societal lust for expediency.
Blame comes in all shapes, flavors, colors and sizes. We are so eager to blanket our failures in the lexicons of excuse that we lose layers of our own individuality in the process. Is this poor parenting? I don’t know. But it makes sense somehow. Doesn’t it?
I ramble when I’m nervous.