The Angst of Success and Popularity

The Angst of Success and Popularity

There is this angst to complete it now. To bring forth the riches that others posses. To force ones self into the putrid greed of material. To breathe in the vile waves of the rotten and live in the physical. I am saddened by this wish of existence.

This existence to find one in the overwhelming need to present ones self as if to be a king or queen. But know nothing of how to delegate their actions, their emotions. They hold dear to show fashion, that supposedly makes them tingle, makes them smile. But dreary is the possessor of the concrete, the possessor who lives for nothing other, than the popularity of self. Shadows rot the cavities of their soul, but they speak of it not.

They latch image, an image that is baked in the sugars of man. Only to be swallowed by the naive, the young, the reckless. The teachers of wisdom, the elders of experience, and ears to listen, have been plucked.

Few gardens grow the willingness to be patient, to live within. To raise ones spear and find what they wish to hunt. Using all pieces of that which they slay. To keep distance from only the display of their preys head. To not only mount the capture, but the struggle that is birthed from it. The beauty that springs from its dying corpse.

So quickly now, do we wish to be the providers, long before we provide for ourselves. Straining our necks to see who has the latest stone to pierce flesh. In turn, grow jealous of what they posses and find words to tear them from their hunt.

So quickly do the young wish to mount the beast to their wall, but wish not to forage. To prepare, to practice, to bleed, to feel the pain, suffering, and loss.

They wish for the mouth of abundance to open, and spill its tongue without the resistance of life.
Too much is held in objects, in image, in moments. Praising each as if a god, praising each as if just a little bit more; and all will walk away in the purity of happiness.
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