“Certainty,” we are told, “is a luxury granted to few through instruction.” Nothing has ever been sacred, holy, set apart. Never. Spoon-fed, force-fed watered down “wisdom” espousing the status quo. I only exist as I am rendered; apostate, shaped in the eyes of tradition as little more than the yield of misgivings. This system: “blessed,” “edifying,” mocking the worth in words. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? This soil is cursed, we continue to sow it. Our bodies have withered in time for the harvest. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? Will I mold to your ideals or do I get to keep my own? Why should I gather everything to fill a box of empty space? I’m collapsing as you fill me with your bastard sense of grace. Every fleeting notion is a burden left to bear, an educated filter for breathing stagnant air. We’re forgotten, abstraction, novelty, worthless, always imperfect. The death of purpose.
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