Circle of Life

The Circle of Life

There's only one reason why anybody would strive for the things I strive for. I don't know the reason yet, but I know there can only be one. I see myself above everyone else, but still seek their admiration. Or maybe I demand it. Sometimes, it doesn't seem to matter at all what they think. It's funny sometimes. Sometimes I spend my whole day putting you down and it keeps me up all night, and then I come back tomorrow and do it all again. Then sometimes, I spend days looking for nothing but to make you smile and it all comes back to me. I guess we never really forget, or learn. I guess what starts everything never really stops or goes away. It swirls and it festers.

When a tornado dissipates, the curling whirlwind of destruction has already torn home from humanity, humility from hubris. It disappears from the eye, leaving the scars more vibrant than the destruction ever was. And where does the wind go? The air surrounds you right now. The wind whips around you, wisping your hair and wilting your ego. Every sunrise, every hurricane, every summer breeze and broken home, every war and all its casualties, every kingdom and colony, they all share the same air. Every tear that runs down your cheek and rolls onto the grass, and every reason I caused it. And every tear sprouts life from the ground, and it moves up the food chain. Whether you like it or not, in some roundabout way, your pain is a part of me, it fuels me. The human experience of everyone else, it all manifests within myself.

When I broke your heart, a child was born in France, while a man won the lottery in Detroit. You tell me that what I did was selfish, that you didn't deserve any of it, and you were right. It wasn't my fault. A man died today and nobody noticed. Sometimes I wonder if that's what they'll say about me. Still, I walk the town and smell the roses, the stench of a thousand forgotten artists, the tears of countless widows, the blood and guts of the men who died to nutriate the soil upon which I walk without a care. And the funny thing is, the roses smell great.

Just once I'd like to make my way to sea so that I can feel that very same wind on my face. The winds of despair, they seem to have a much different taste when you don't have to worry about the history of the land. Still, I lean over the rail, and I stare into the pool of every broken heart. I have to admit, the money changes you. I spit into the ocean and in your face.

The confines of sympathy no longer constrain me. I think on every second I wasted on everyone else, and how far it got me. One day, that very same concoction of tears and vitriol will rise in a storm that could very well take my life. I only wish she could be there with me, so she could see that it wasn't all my fault.