Why have I bound myself so thoroughly? What is the origin of my constraint? I look upon the world and see the paths to riches, to power, to excellence. My eyes find the courses that must be run, the steps which must be followed to reach these goals. I understand the way and means, I comprehend the rites of passage, but my will melts soon after being placed upon any of these trails.
Such grand dreams, such plans for a glorious future buzz within my mind like a thousand fireflies of light. Each a dream or shimmering hope, each a concourse leading to a gilded future. Yet I sit within my mind, a sullen child, batting at the annoying insects which plague my playtime. Swatting at these unrealized dreams because they require work and diligence.
Is it because these are not the gems I seek? Are these not the priceless baubles I should hunt? What is it that I want? Am I bereft of will because I have no purpose?
I place my feet upon a road and watch my limbs perambulate. A bold, confident stride which progresses quickly and easily, overcoming obstacles while nimbly keeping the pace. But day turns to night and night yields another day and the process must start anew. Again the will must be mustered. Again I must exert my will to forge ahead. Standing, my feet balk at further progress, complaining there has been no measurable advance. Sullenly, they begin their forward pacing, shuffling along with a disgruntled cadence.
In less than a day entropy has struck again. Such a formidable will, able to contest furies with fiery steel, it corrodes to worthless rust before the overwhelming prospect of time. There are moments when I feel I could stand upright before a legion of foes, but these moments are as fleeting as an autumn wind, rustling the falling leaves of bravado in my soul. After this capricious wind passes, the stark skeleton of truth remains, denuded in the waning light of another year's end, bare before the growing shadows cast by the spiraling fall of yet another forsaken dream.
What is it that I want? How shall I ever convince myself to be happy with my lot in life, when I love my fantasies so dearly? How can I be content to plod along these dreary paths when my heart yearns to fly from bright star to star and to worlds glimpsed only in veiled memories of slumber?
I writhe in the chains I have wrought. Small movements of displeasure give quiet voice to the apparent necessities of life today. The paces I push through, the mazes I run, all to stay alive, but with a price. A dear toll evident in the shackles binding me to earth. So despised are these ties, I shut the sound of rattling links from my ears. I ignore the weights upon my ankles and soul, rather than contemplate the unsavory lot which surrounds me.
To hear me complain, one would think my place unfair in life. I rail against my life, but my resistance is only evident in my efforts to prevent any tangible change. Do I damn my progress, swearing if I cannot have my dreams, I will not accept lesser goals? Do I stop myself from normal paths because I fear I will further die inside as I advance?
I have already lost so much of what I once believed and felt. My zealous spirit of youth lies in a drugged sleep, passing the days in comforting sensory deprivation. It does not witness the routines of weekly deadlines and toils. It rarely glimpses the gray buildings I walk among as I blithely spend the allotted time of my life.
The spirit is not always dreaming, though. It does occasionally rise, and in the process, raises it hackles at its surroundings. It gives voice to the ideals and portraits it believes my life should be and reminds me with its cries of what might be.
Despair fills my being as the memories of discarded dreams circle in a parade of jeering faces. My feet falter in their forward movement, jerking my body like a puppet whose marionette has momentarily forgotten his charge. My will melts from solid steel to slag, then dissolves from a burning liquid to harmless steam and fog, to be carried away by the self-mocking carrion winds of my personal fall. Winds that remove the leaves from a troubled frame, bereft of purpose, the branching of my fingers grope toward a setting sun which sheds diminishing warmth. Fingers that reach for the light of purpose only to find the fires within have been ignored too long, fading over years of neglect. Sullen coals which now only spark when protesting their wasted fuel.
What is it that I want? Lacking a lodestone to point in the right direction, with no conception of what purpose would re-forge my will, short-term goals are quickly lost. With no guiding desire, I do my best to sit still, choosing to risk stagnation rather than travel an unwanted path. Fearful of forsaking a ruined past, I clutch my fanciful dreams tighter than any miser his treasured hoard. Holding these tattered remnants to my breast, I am too busy to proceed upon any other path for long. Instead, I mourn for what is not, and long for my escape. I quiet the mewling hunger inside and send my soul back to its stupor among the myths and mists. I shut the door upon my very being and turn my back to face the indecisive, incomplete future that offers itself for my feet to trod. A circular path that conveniently accommodates the shackles I have placed upon my will.
[© 1997 Joseph Wheeler, all rights reserved]