Place yourself at the edge of any peak or promontory of the known world and the vista you have earned turns into a liability, a distance pumped with a hefty dose of gravity. The cliff is yours to negotiate, jagged rocks all over, treacherous crevices and holes, no highways to glide through, no roadside assistance, no real reference to open space other than the stretch between you and rock bottom.
Blessed are those who reach for the sky, an ancient adage says, as long as they never settle on a peak or cloud of this world.
The pioneers and visionaries know exactly what this means. They’re gazing at the universe from vistas that don’t belong to the world they came from. They’ve moved on, changing their scenery, so that their struggling beginnings would never contain their progress thereafter. After all, it’s surprisingly easy to forget that the defining point of breakthrough is to break through into new worlds and domains. The tendency to kick back and relax in the same old ones, content with the relative advantage one has gained in the process, can take over at the slightest opportunity. Stacking the cards against it is essential.
Reserved for the lowest dreamership, of which there is plenty, these tempting clouds function as the breeding grounds for lofty mediocrity. Roosted upon its vapor throne, the atavism that runs the majority of life regards the world below it with self-indulgent glee, oblivious to the eyes regarding it in turn from platforms unattainable to it, platforms synonymous with effervescent transition. Though beneath, in the glorious vistas, sprawls a universe seemingly conquered and at hand, an entire multitude of possibilities have been concealed in the distance above, behind the skies, no longer accessible or fathomable. Atavism, self-involved as it is, has no recourse to it, no mind for anything that lies beyond its sealed reality chambers. Its only concern lies with what it already knows, or thinks it knows, eager as it is to lock everything in and keep its precious reality within reach.
In that sense, familiarity and tradition are living death — if by Living we mean something that breathes, moves and interacts, and by Death we mean something that stands in the wake of something else.
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From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE