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The Human Condition

I’m a fuckin failure. 

He said it to himself over and over. 

Beating himself with his percieved faults and missed steps.  Hoping and clinging to a belief that maybe one day the universe would hear his cries and unload a flood of prosperity and success. 

Wishing, hoping, dreaming that even one aspect of life, he’d be able to pull together and prosper.  But for every tear, whimper, grunt and moan… nothing, no response, just silence, deafening silence.  The kind where breath feels and sounds like a gasp for air.

He maintains his optamism but doubts it’s true existance.  Maybe it’s a facade, a way to blind ones self to the onslaught of constant dispare.   Maybe it’s truth and vindication, but that seems farther and farther from the being he so desires.

When do all these attempts at change, efforts of emotional control and positive emotional process become enough to shift the balance in his favor?

How many hills does he have to climb? 

How many hungry mouths does he have to feed, before the universal intent of enlightment and growth reveals the fruits of contentment aggressively hidden from plain sight?

The fear, the anxiety, the doubt, all converge like thick black oil bleeding over the cross roads of progress. 

Standing in worry, dreanched in uncertanty he has to decide…

Move forward amidst the trailing fog of pessimisim, high stepping it’s grasp as he moves towards an uncertain truth and a future he can’t possibly know.

Or

Give in and give up on uncertanty,  stepping back into the fog, complicit in it’s smothering of heart and will?

He moves forward…

because he has to!

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