and so, and unsurprisingly, I struggle with the problem of my own relevance, or more to the point my own irrelevance.
we are all ants scurrying on the big sweet spot, in a ray of the sun, chancing for a moment of deep warmth and fulfilment. we are all irrelevant. whether you are michael jackson or michael johnson. irrelevant. playthings of the wind.
telling myself this, sometimes, helps, but in the end scale seldom has the calming influence you would expect
because we are the center of our frame of reference and our own significance, our own insignificance, is paramount to our sanity
and you know something is wrong when you are no longer the star of your own dreams and the point of your own poetry. you know something has gone awry when every piece of symbolism has a face not your own, and when you expect to come second in line to most every person you know
internal, external wallflowering of a profound nature, maggotry of the soul. the act of turning oneself into a tiny pest on the apple of their own life, instead of finding a way to see their little bit of fruit as the center of the universe