Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.

The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.

The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.

When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.

Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.

--- jan christian MN