The unfathomable goals whose realities I wanted to blow wide open, shattering that earthly glass with the celestial fire that brims in my heart. These naive perceptions of dragons and grails were escalated to make one feel as if their attainment were impossible.
Impossibility is a weighted vest of chains we choose to wear every day.
I have conquered all because I have bested myself. Bested the Spaniard, beaten the giant, and outwitted the cunning and rescued the metaphorical princess within. The form that stands before you today is consequence of decision.
It's not enough...
I want the wealth and riches that can't be signed over on a crisp clean slip of slavery. I want freedom.
Fuck synergy. I want the sweat of my brow to elevate the purpose of my passion, the power of my vessel and the prowess of my mind. Shackles that link brother to brother to sister, each wailing in sorrowed song, finding salvation in "free time." As if our direction of crescendo ended every weekend at the bottom of a blue hurricane at TGI Fridays, only to be resurrected in a psychotic circle of life.
Freedom of mind, freedom of time, will, SPEECH! Unbound by the nonsense traditions that have bound us from progress, chaining us to desk and paper. Giving our authorities those bitter, passive aggressive grimaces only to see on our death beds the imprint of the key to our chains in our very palms. The freedom of our hearts, salvation and happiness being at our ready.
What does one do with freedom?
My burdens will not prop up those whom society has elevated, rather than push, I shall pull. Gritted teeth, blistered hands, I will grasp at the stony foundations of Valhalla. Till bicep and trapezius tear from bone, anatomy proving once again that flesh fails in comparison to spirit. I will ascend.
Only then will I bear burden, weight like atlas shrugged upon my back, my journey showing it's map in scars and vasculature, smoothed from roughness. The giving tree will have not resemblance of me, for I clench hope in desperate fists that only open to strong and deserving. The arrogance of youth will hold not to me unless accompanied by the passion of impossibility. To them, those blessed children of fever, what left of earths flesh clung to my wearied frame will be in service.
When speech leaves, my brain siphoned, the very tendons of my wrist seize will I be silenced. My wearied worn cot of cloth, with a cloak of dust from neglect will be my head's final pillow. Smiling, pride and smugness only God himself could appreciate, for I gave it all for the creation, I have made God within myself.