When all that is profound has become pedestrian.

When only the sublime peaks of perfection exist in the minds of the passives.

When the path itself, the sublime uncertainty and adolescence of thought is forgotten.

When the vision of a figure breaking through glass, shards glittering like a cutting rain cloud.  Time frozen in that perfect moment, is there beauty only then?

The Boring Writer Returns.

List every category, collate them all and they share one thing.

There is a peak for every experience, every emotion and motion.  Art seeks to describe this mathematical perfection.  Yet what of the inflection points, where only the corpses of those who failed lay in undescribed gulleys.  Those little blips and fragile lightning bolts of peaks that only exist when you have looked closely enough, a small jagged point that charts the upward path of the line, to carve viciously downward, then continue. In that pseudo-valley of ideas, and the rise before it, what of those?  When you take the whole picture in, when you look from far enough away, those true, real but miniscule, imperfections are smoothed out, zoomed out and irrelevant.

Not even a footnote.

In this age of want, what forgetfulness must there be.  Want not for money (although there is that, but only for those who do not matter to the callous gaze of history), or entertainment, but a massive dearth of spirit.  When the age of apathy is upon us, then we truly are the living dead.  The passives must consume, and it must be perfect.

Truth is abhorrent, couch yourself in lies upon lies upon lies.  Become meta, as you wish, but it doesn't change what is.  Change yourself from the skin in.  Then change the world from without.  Ideas cannot be delivered, they must be hidden, a noble idea is just more advertising to a mind full of everything else.  So couch it, couch it, couch it, until it is unrecognisable, it becomes a soundbite, a meme, a catchphrase, and it loses all fucking meaning and you become a worthless parrot.  Chuckle at your inside jokes which feebly attempt to disguise how hollow they are.

The age of self and apathy, when everything is known but nothing is done.  We know of corruption, we know of injustice, and we keep playing we play we play we play the game.  As long as we get ours.  Who cares how it all really works?

The best and brightest among us are now the most ignorant, they're the only ones who believe in anything.  They're the ones who act on their beliefs.

Many Minds like damp piles of leaves, earthy and still.  No flame can be set, barely a feeble smoulder.

Baffled?

Easily ignored.

Post Script:

When someone like myself exists, sometimes we are best to immerse ourselves in the lives of others quietly and thoughtfully, slipping in and causing only the smallest ripple.    A challenge when our nature is to cannonball in and thrash for the joy of chaos.

What if it is the jazz of writing, looking for the words that aren't written? Hearing the cries left unsaid. Perhaps it is as subtle as being devoured by a bear.