rough notes


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I am too old for this routine. We have spent too many of our days and nights allowing ourselves to whither away. We believe we are being productive and progressive in our attempts to be critics of ourselves, of our parents, of our city and of our culture, but we’ve gone no where. It is dark outside and the night air is cold. It is a failed experiment.

We are too old to continue on like this. Long ago I signed the form and bought the ticket to apparent self-actualization, self-realization, self-empowerment and self-recognition by investing in and reading so many books-on-tape. I led myself down to the water, and I drank it heartily. The knowledge I found was self-fulfilling. All I learned was that we’d believe anything we’d like if we put our hearts and minds to it. You went along for the ride.

My grandfather would not be impressed with us, with me, or the state we’re in. God bless this mess, we might say to calm his nerves. If he were still of this world, my grandfather would chastise us for caring too much about the wrong things and not caring about what others might think of us to boot. Lucky for us I never cared for my grandfather in the first place, so his criticism that arrives from beyond the grave is inconsequential.

Your sister cared that we didn’t care, though. We were her heroes. We might still be her heroes if she hadn’t drank the kool-aid we mixed together. We thought we knew ourselves and we thought we were bang-on when we told her any meaning found in life is diluted by the constant rush of inconsequence. We robbed her own life of meaning by disclosing the secrets of the universe. She thought she’d become as empowered as us. Now she’s a wet blanket, and though we’re smug in our victory, we’re still hollow at the core.


Written by mitchellirons

December 27, 2008 at 6:54 am

Posted in ecrits

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