There are moments in life in which we enter a state of consciousness that bears an ill-remembered resemblance to unconsciousness. It isn’t the automated actions we aren’t wired think of, but the fleeting breaths between realized instants in which we come at an absolute blank. Vilifying thoughts, recollections, feelings, each disintegrates into evanescent nonexistence, and though the use of force to cause the desist of one’s own demure thoughts for any increment of time is likely an impossibility—and an attempt to eradicate a memory by choice an inconceivable absurdity—the flashes of complete mental silence are a peaceful bounty, only if we can manage the tact to find them.
Life, for those who can truly be dubbed living, enforces two debilitating and fractious choices: either bow to the ultimate humiliation that is reality, or take the chance in stepping out of order to attempt innovation and successful freedom. The problem, unbeknownst to many who ignorantly find a compelling disposition for the latter, is that, regardless of our own consistent tendency to be obsequious or wanton attitudes, all will come to the same end when things come to a head, bar an elite few—who are in no way special. They have neither affliction nor genius, neither exceptional skill nor rewarding misfortune. They are simply lucky, and everyone struggling below the glass ceiling will continue to push until their arms tire and their hair grays. Such is life: a lurid, hellish experience with an egregious deadline that knows no age.
We can be lonely, empty, obdurate toward redemption, contrite for our very existence, afraid of the world and every enticing detail of its absolute disarray and tendency for fickleness, dissembled under a mask of fervidity that we so desperately cling to despite our constant urge to rip it off, and yet still happen to be the most upstanding individuals the people of our world have the toxic pleasure of crossing.