Man, life; the very stillness of it boggles the mind. And even when I think I have it all figured out (which I never actually say out loud anymore, lest the hammer fall), I find another nuance that's news to my perception, causing my nasal area to seize up, and my forehead to clog with a fear for the light of the moment that's akin to claptastrophy. Since when is it I learned to second-guess myself? Since when is it I learned to set aside the business of living for the cajolement of a sense pleasure, the appeasement of a mentality long since established by a world around me that was merely appeasing its mentality? Sure you could say I had my own role to play in accepting what the world had to offer, proceeding to hit the pleasure button over and over again, and finding the button for pain as far away from me as possible.
All I can say is that everyday I stare, increasingly in awe, at the grandeur of my delusion. The little intricacies of a story to unfold. A mind filled, brimming with untold miserable delights that slaver, with naught but regularity for a second-hand. And where else can I be but right where I am regardless of what it is I take in by these senses? The world that surrounds me is not what I thought it was. Somehow I've surrounded it, and will break windows and toss torches if I don't cooperate and release my sole hostage. It's not what you tell me it is. It's not what I tell myself it is. It really only seems to be what it is. A world that changes its skin more times than the topmost salesman (is it the world that changes, or my point of view? who's the salesman here anyway?!). Without the assessments of science (more of a religion than Christ could ever lay claim to), without the rigid data of a rigorous guess and check analysis, and without the unanimous decision to call a toad by any other name. Is that egotistical of us as "humanity"'s underbelly (I'm sure it's egotistical of me to say it, right?)? Is this really just another dark age in disguise?
Who is called to bear to for the foibles of a derelict race of mammals that build a tower daily and tear it down again before reaching the heavens for fear that we deem ourselves worthy? We're always watching everyone else for their misdeeds, misconducts, misfortunes, misdirections, misunderstood hackneys, mistletoes, exposed camels toes and leftover genitalia, loaded social norms, and subtle language undertones motivated by cowardly righteousness ("oh, not me!" you proclaim...well, so). We play by a system of checks and balances whereby we have appointed ourselves wards of those poor people who just so happen to be nearby, or, within shouting distance, within earshot, or eyesight, arms reach, or a hair's breadth, three feet out, or nine feet to the hole and a clear lane to drive.
We monitor the actions of our neighbors just so we can feel, when we've caught the red hand pilfering cookies, a little bit more righteous in our search for a cookie jar to pilfer from, our hand clothed in a fresh coat of paint. At least the cookie monster had no shame. He always said, "Fuck it, I'm having me some cookies by the fistful." He didn't judge or disdain, justify or complain about another's actions ordained by his wanton desire. He didn't judge anybody but himself.
So, who's to say? Sesame Street? Apparently, and why not? It'd be better than lifting our eyes to their lord and ladyships, us, wouldn't it? Right down to the black gown and white wig, the gallant gavel and tasty fig of a justice we preach but never follow, only to wallow in our own selves, the strife of another life after life after life.