.
.
.
The silky smooth surface of tranquillity cloaks a torrent of discontent, pandemonium the stirring undercurrent that lies hidden beneath.
A breakdown marks the previous day, the very first of its kind in fifteen weeks.
So tired.
Just so, so damned tired. All the critique, the judgement, the criticism, the ensuing shits.
Tired sick of being alienated, have me and the things I love be put-down time and time again, as if to estrange as much as attempts to marginalise.
I have not come thus long, thus far, to be back at where I was one whole decade ago.
.
.
.
Keys in hand, fuel in tank, the open roads beckon for solace. Peace. My goodness, when, why, have I grown so worldly?
Greed, corruption; these subtle and insidious monsters! Blast them. Damn their eyes.
Too comfortable a lifestyle. Too many luxuries a life.
Filth too dense to clean.
A living footprint too heavy to sustain.
Behind clouds the timid sun hides, painting this land a monochromatic hallucination. The sky darkens. The gauges light, crisp white on black. Rev counter, fuel counter, all systems are still go.
As they were two and a half years ago.
Those were simpler times. Simpler ways. Simpler wants. Simpler needs.
Times happier perhaps not, certainly more beautiful they must have been.
.
.
.
Beautiful this world around me is still.
Great ideas, great pieces of work, great talent, great skill . . . trivialised and suppressed to the realm of gods and religions past, faded into insignificance by the very forcings of ignorant proles all wealthy of spirit, wealthy of cash, bereft of sense.
.
.
.
Take this omen, for tomorrow would not be the same as yesterday, nor as it is today.
Ceilings and zeniths, they were certainly never to be surpassed.
.
.
The silky smooth surface of tranquillity cloaks a torrent of discontent, pandemonium the stirring undercurrent that lies hidden beneath.
A breakdown marks the previous day, the very first of its kind in fifteen weeks.
So tired.
Just so, so damned tired. All the critique, the judgement, the criticism, the ensuing shits.
Tired sick of being alienated, have me and the things I love be put-down time and time again, as if to estrange as much as attempts to marginalise.
I have not come thus long, thus far, to be back at where I was one whole decade ago.
.
.
.
Keys in hand, fuel in tank, the open roads beckon for solace. Peace. My goodness, when, why, have I grown so worldly?
Greed, corruption; these subtle and insidious monsters! Blast them. Damn their eyes.
Too comfortable a lifestyle. Too many luxuries a life.
Filth too dense to clean.
A living footprint too heavy to sustain.
Behind clouds the timid sun hides, painting this land a monochromatic hallucination. The sky darkens. The gauges light, crisp white on black. Rev counter, fuel counter, all systems are still go.
As they were two and a half years ago.
Those were simpler times. Simpler ways. Simpler wants. Simpler needs.
Times happier perhaps not, certainly more beautiful they must have been.
.
.
.
Beautiful this world around me is still.
Great ideas, great pieces of work, great talent, great skill . . . trivialised and suppressed to the realm of gods and religions past, faded into insignificance by the very forcings of ignorant proles all wealthy of spirit, wealthy of cash, bereft of sense.
.
.
.
Take this omen, for tomorrow would not be the same as yesterday, nor as it is today.
Ceilings and zeniths, they were certainly never to be surpassed.
.
.
.
