I - The Future | kyroe's Blog

It is a sad fate when one must fear the future...To look upon something as unknown as tomorrow with widened eyes, a racing heart, and a cold chill, when in all actuality it is the unknown that makes it so harmless. The "what ifs" become "maybes" and "probablies", turning to "Most likelies" and "inevitablies", fed from the cups of our doubts and paranoia. While the starry-eyed optimists look upon it as a world of endless wonder, a never-ending train of possibilities, all of which dot the ether like stars, sprinkled erratically on a dark background, their twinkles drawing in the focus of those who listen only to the songs of their unborn descendants, unsung with sweet harmony, painting stories of a world that will right the wrongs of our fathers and theirs, tears of joy falling from their mind's eye, the cleverest of doubts creep up on the rest of us, digging under our skin, and tainting the joyful memories not yet lived, our trains turned to the eerie ghost stories of cars filled with roving spirits, those who came before us, who too feared so much the background behind the stars, that they were swallowed up by it, sent spiraling into an abyss of their own creation, greeted by the teeth and nails of monsters no child would ever dare to dream, screaming out in smoke, breathing in ash, drowning their realities with tainted water, and flying high on waxen wings, returning to the bitter thorny songs of their ancestors, eternally trapped in a perpetual chorus of disharmony, leaving the listeners' ears bleeding. Why do we acknowledge that which cannot harm us, an incorporeal entity with no intent but to be, or not to be? Why are we the painters of its form, and who was foolish enough to hand us the brush? Why is it that we all can't paint the happy flowers, and abstract masterpieces of our once-enjoyed youth? Are our ancestors to blame for our follies? Is it not they who have left us records of their mistakes, in the hopes that we'd never make them ourselves, in both moving, and immobile form, or did they leave us roadmaps to our inevitable ruin, their strings pulled by the puppeteers behind the veil of society, in an attempt to keep us all in line? If all we know is what we've learned from our limited resources as man, and as woman, how are we to stray from their paths, if we've been placed amidst the maze they've created? And once we've unknowingly fallen into their infinite routine, how are we to erase our horrific drawings, in order to once again paint flowers and suns, in gratitude to our childhood selves for keeping us safe from the horrors we'd soon face...within time...within "reality"...within ourselves...?

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