A Six-Month Stroll
A six-month stroll, far away from convention,
birthed by an instinct to grow distinct, and foreign
from identity and culture that’d been accompanied due to lack of distrust,
and in-part, due to the lack of some other robust system to fall-back upon.
"The day I shall set-off would occur as one that
stood on top of a collective-courage-precedent.
I'd kept my eye on this road for long, and today
I put foot into the pool of commitment that it demands.
Now the previous reluctance mustn’t be the cause of return,
for I carry none of the weights that I held on my back unawares.
I do however predict the inconsistency of resolve in man,
and leave therefore room for any discrepancies that shall fall—
greatness isn't meant for all besides, who's so benign
to walk into certain death, when the fruit has curled itself in a veil,
waiting for a higher force to welcome and chant ‘come-possess’."
The travel wasn't indeed as fulfilling and competent as I'd hoped in my head,
and it was for certain that my premonition was correct:
The resolute to serene wasn't soiled by a single man,
it was rather a crowd of the unassumed, barging in for the prize—
emerging from within me, as prejudices of thought,
and as influence on my command as I traversed further along the path.
I was never truly freed from convention,
or from culture that I was for long engrossed in,
I then contemplated my wish to separate and disappear,
and wither, crumble to dust, unbeknownst to all.
I ran further down this trail,
knocking on every door I came across,
pleading for help and with each attempt made,
the shed skin start to crawl back upon me, and dress me in my colour again—
alongside returned my reservation when upheld against a foreign member
of the human race.
It ached equally as much as it took to shed,
I was carving culture into a vulgar spectacle of myself,
now deemed lower than a beast, for I'd committed,
then failed to revoke the human identity I carried at birth—
the distant dream seemed to subside, that of a world devoid of lust and pride,
possession and disdain.
I'd failed to beckon the age of change.
The few doors that were put aside to harness out of pity,
warmth and food upon my animal lacking in reserve and shame,
came to further fuel my demise, once I gave into convention,
and it was too late to reach the velocity of escape.
It was jarring, the reflex with which commitment pulled back,
and against, perhaps justly, choosing to not act
when a foreign entity, and that of a slave, burns due lack of action on their behalf,
anyone would do the same, beast or man,
but I was reduced to none.
What is a human that abandons accompaniment, culture, religion,
sustenance of craft, and societal currency (a motive in itself),
validation and pride?
What is an animal that harnesses restraint, not of man,
but from the convention of hunter and prey,
on the instinct of replication performing a complete desolation,
and abolishment of anonymity, keeping rather a poor facsimile of family,
inclusivity—conection, invigoration of a tongue to communicate,
speak (unto oneself), debate, and sing; and the most needful and absolute:
omnipresence, such that negligence never becomes plague?
There'd be no writers, musicians, painters for one,
and the niche constituents of the artisan class.
The difference then is of the self, tainted by the primal urge to survive and sustain;
but as convent, meditations of this sort come to a contradictory end,
for there is an evident practice of the simplification of time as it progresses,
and fallacies that coincidentally fall onboard;
and besides, when has a dream come to life?