Astral Wreckage

April 13, 2007 § Leave a comment

A little younger at least cognizance wise, I thought the world existed around me. In all that naïve sense of greatness for being the centre of all this unexplainable largeness full of magnificent trees, buildings, and what not; I thought I had a purpose. A purpose to all these things lying about me was the very crucial me. As if I was the incarnation of the astral inspiration of my name, a burning ego of all planetary motion.

Then, as I grew up, more in terms of numbers than in any other apparently important manner, I lost that sense of purpose… or rather that sense of having a purpose. The more I looked around, it all seemed removed from my existence and here I was exiled from the belief that I mattered. Worse, I lost the previous disregard for a confirmation of that belief.

Everywhere I look now, when I finally manage to, I see bathroom tiles set to match the vitreous inconsequentiality in my life. The sanitary nature of all these customized rows about me wrecks my sense of being. Such instances there are, when I can’t comprehend the largeness or smallness of my surroundings. How it makes me feel like I’m just doing the necessary deed. Going through the motions is too crass a suggestion to make in the shadow of the metaphor I started this paragraph with. Maybe I should end this dirge-like purge of my detached takes on existence, or maybe not.

I demand to know where did my meaning go? Why was I so sure there were universes waiting for me to return to? Astral wonders, interplanetary alliances, and alien adventures. All my heroes at the age of 22 are burning effigies who followed transitory orbits, bright human fire flies. My vain habit of picking up the dead leaves like I can stop them from falling. Stop the stupid routine of it all.

Of course, the ones who managed to break the mold went so far off the orbit that they fell in meteor showers. And how we clap when they fall, raise right out of our ergonomically suited seats or might I dare say our spreading seats to cheer their spectacular display. So what does it all mean? Was it ever meant to… or is there just this pointless astral wreckage.

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They’re drinkin’, thinkin’ that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you’d better lift your diamond ring, you’d better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

-Bob Dylan

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