Too much passion frightens me. The heart is like a pack of sleigh dogs, and the mind the reins. If you relinquish the reins and let the dogs run as they please, who knows where they’ll bring you? Maybe the destination. Or maybe some forsaken land that resembles your destination but in fact isn’t. And then you’re lost without even having known it.
I can nearly envisage a future
where things of the truest pleasure
are reluctantly forgone so that we may
pursue what is more relevant to this day
and age, and not be encumbered by a knowledge
that society does blindly fail to acknowledge.
It is a future where most will gladly convene
as wrought parts of a purposeless machine.
Discovery of the human life, the limits of thought
and the truth about everything will be brought
down to the measly field of a nighttime hobbyist,
and there till the end of time it shall subsist
in stifling solitude, never allowed the chance
to explore beyond its naive surficial glance.
Art, too, in both images and words, is not spared.
In the harsh, cold climate it is indifferently bared.
No sooner will it freeze and be buried deep
beneath the ice; where it shall, unnoticed, sleep
until someone realizes the ridiculous humdrum
of society’s mechanical strum,
and then seeks to unearth, like an eager archeologist,
what society had so ignorantly dismissed.
I am not looking forward to that dismal future.