I don't know if you've noticed it, true believers, but I have found myself drowsing. Not the pseudo-sleep of Sunday afternoons watching football, rather, a intellectual/sensory kind of sleep. I remember being younger, with the world still being full of wonder, and it seemed like my senses were more intense and acute. Now, being the jolly old age of thirty one I am starting to feel dull, thrust into the dirt too many times. I've grown too accustomed of this world. I need to shake myself awake, scrub myself clean, and take to the world again with a pair of new eyes. But how should I do this? I don't want to be as reckless as I was in my youth, or is that the precise answer? Maybe I should seek this out over the vast world, following in the honorable footsteps of Guthrie, Kerouac, Ulysses, or good old Huck Finn. Maybe I should follow the path inward and look to Thomas Merton, Whitman, or some half starved yogi contemplating Vishnu on the Lotus blossum. Maybe Hunter and Rimbaud knew it best and I should just take two tabs of acid, a half a quart of gin, and innumerable pills, and see the good doctor in the morning. All I know is that something's got to give. The the contentedness of all of these zombies is beginning to wear off on me. I feel my eyes getting heavier, and the chimes of marriage and Home Depot ring softly in my ears. My arms are lifting, perpendicular to my shoulders and the days run together. Down in my immense gut is a small voice crying, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." But I fear that soon even that will be extinguished. If you see me, listless, mumbling to myself about the benefits of my 401K, wearing an Ambercrombie & Fitch shirt, some workout pants, and a chest as clean as a newborn babe, remember what you do when you see a zombie. You shoot them between the eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment