He uttered a few words in silence then left. He's grown a bit taller. He has matured a bit more. He now knows how it feels to be left to drown in a Petri dish, to be looked down on through a microscope and analyzed.

Maturity can only be described as an endless analog scale. No matter how fully matured you feel, there's always a chance to develop that maturity hoax a little more.

How mature can a person get really?

Deep down he knew that maturity is just a life long April's fool that everybody's fallen for. Deep down everybody's as childish as the very next person; dropping banana peals on the sidewalk, squirting guns at strangers whom we feel would forgive us for being the figure of innocence that we are, and other mind games that you wouldn't believe. If we're not in it for the fun of it, then what the hell are we doing here?

Add a very big mouth to a diminished physique and a narrow mental capacity and watch the human form evolve into something godly. Those are excerpts from our national anthem. Those constituted our religion, that thing we've lived by and swallowed…

… and life does go on!

It does… and he wondered if he'd be missed.

Le Martine once said that sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated. If only bullshit had an a.k.a.

He rushed into a brick wall on the other side of the street, thinking strong, believing invincible. 'Nothing can break me', he said as he hit his mortared destiny, and off he bounced chasing a shadow of maturity in its most glorious form. He chased it off to the gates of Naples where he found his true heart, his old and originally stunning self.

The snob in him stood tall and lonely. He grinned with teeth that could light up Prague like a sun of day in the center of an infinite sky and cried 'Oh I still exist'.

They hated him. Yesterday he was their Olympic God. Today he's just a shadow of somebody who once was. How engulfed by life can a man become?

It's their loss. He so deserved better.

One day they love him. The next day they just don't. He's easy. He's small, insignificant, demanding his a.k.a. Like words from Holy Books that's been altered to cover the new and improved, he pretty much felt the same. He's easy to change, adapt, compromise, substitute to fit the newly established needs of the fellow men of the new age.

In the end the other warriors told him that all roads lead to Rome. What if the roads aren't clear enough to pursue?

Not even the microscope could find him.

Rome, I seek thee.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Friday, November 03, 2006 at 11/03/2006 03:15:00 AM | Permalink