Flee the fight
Man the trenches
A fresh supply of hate to the head
Inappropriate pugnacious properties
Propel the peace to non-existence
Worship the uniform
Genuflect to jesus
Lie to yourself, to morals,
To your twisted treacherous cult
Face your brother
Vicarious anger blazing,
Content with chaos
Lose it, find it, keep it, resent it
Your warped and mangled mind, desolate of meaning
The disconnection of the youth is a thing to be feared. Children obsess themselves with worthless information, moulding their minds into broken pieces of ideas whilst prohibiting the further development of growth and worthy stimulation.
'Children' is a term I use loosely, defined as people of all ages with more capacity to develop and gain a greater understanding of the world they live in. You may be a thirty-six year old, living in your stylish apartment, waking up promptly every morning at seven to hit the the gym, following your work-out with a swift breakfast, donning a suit and making your way to your office cubicle where you bludgeon your day with meaningless woes and stresses. Your greatest annoyance in your low-carb life is the cat alleviating himself against your priceless sofa. Your greatest accomplishment is your pending promotion. Your favourite pastime is girl-hunting. You get manicures, use moisturiser and pluck your eyebrows. You are vapid. You belong in the realm of adolescence.
Don't get me wrong, I don't believe that I'm any better than you are. I find myself at a crossroads in life where I could accept that the universe that I belong to is worth more than a haircut or I could accept that vacancies are a part of my coping method in dealing with the outrageous amount of information that I'm forced to swallow daily. I've chosen a comfortable blend between the two. Whenever this world becomes to much to handle, I switch to vapid-mode and Hey Presto! I'm saved from a wandering mind, vicarious pain and suffering, and the need to stimulate my poor, confused brain.
This ability to switch makes for a weak race. As world colonizers, dominatrices and dictators, we have a responsibility to each other. “To each his own” should never apply. Stop avoiding the inevitable. Grow up. (She tells herself, irony rife in her mind.)