That which is forever solid is strong but grounded, always in the mercy of the warring elements. That which is forever mutable is forever advancing, making molehills out of mountains — thin shadows out of pervasive darkness.
Place yourself at the top of a mountain and you sell yourself short. Mountains are high, but they’re no match for the animation that leaps through the eons with fearless abandon.
Place yourself at the top of a lifestyle and you’re the prisoner of an era, a statue, a frieze, at best a monument to be studied, preserved and handled with care.
Place yourself at the top of a belief system and you become a god in your own mind. The sky above becomes a ceiling which you can’t cross, stretching in all directions: enveloping you, encasing you. You gaze up at it in admiration, wondering what if, what if? The world shrinks at your every attempt to engage it, forcing you to believe in the inanity of your delusions. The uninitiated and blasphemous roam free around you, galloping down the tracts of time while you scream after them, demanding they be shot down.
Shoot down the free riders and you’re nothing but a disease in the field of evolution. Place yourself at the top of a mountain and you’re a grain of sand in the machine of progress and the vein of development. You’re an arrested piece of animation, frozen in time, destined to form the foundation on which other things grow. You’re the tail end of a dynamic function, the appendix in a complex system, a cul-de-sac in a growing network. You’re an amoeba, a quaint unicellular organism swimming in a sea of octopi, sharks, humans and plastic bags — the detail that adorns other life forms’ choices.
You’re the subplot in a greater saga.
You’re in hell.
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From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE