I am about to write a few verses of prose that will be among the most compelling poetry of soul, ever to be inscribed on a figuratively majestic sepulchre. There is an incipient comprehension of eloquence that reaches beyond descriptive limits. Breath is shortened, eyes glaze over; enchanted. Overwhelmed by the resonating harmony, a rhythm starts pounding on a hollow chest. Awakening in a land where everything is bright and colourful, you find yourself content in the moment, you softly whisper; I’m free.
Spatial relations are suddenly askew… you can’t help but suspect you’ve joined Alice and crew. Pinching yourself, you find that you’re still you. Your ashen face reflects off the polished mirror. Something is different, though nothing has changed. In the moments that follow you stumble upon revelation after revelation. Visionary introspection, fleeting though it be, has left a deposit of insight so prolific that it explains this sudden onset of cerebellitis.
There is a plethora of viable theories based on our existential philosophies that would indicate that there is a personal responsibility to find the meaning of life. To argue such a basic premise would be somewhat ludicrous, but at the same time it would be psychotic to place complete faith in an outlook formed by general consensus, rather than examine the inherent elements from which we build community. It is not a matter of becoming a self-fulfilled individual among a myriad of lives stymied by ignorance.
Perhaps the science of thought is a shot in the dark. The path, upon which psychological theories are illumined, is quite well beaten. Continued observation has revealed the astonishingly predictable behaviour of mankind in general. This reality suggests that individuality can and only be significant when it is entwined within the overall progression of society. The implication is that a sense of acceptance in terms of emotional, spiritual, and intellectual ascent becomes the pinnacle factor in accurately deciphering personal significance.
In a perfect world I would have been appointed Poet Laureate; with monarchial backing and public accolades. It would be a special honour, which would be burdensome to wear. If that were the case though, I fear that my thirst for glory and respect would always starve for more, even if I had it all. Unsightly and broken we project an illusion of greatness that we forget is transparent. Purist contentment and assurance of place are indeed desirable and attainable, yet so equally weighted, within and without.
