The Future Beckons
He shuts his creaking car door looking past the parking lot towards the gray buildings meshed with the surrounding trees. The wind blows cold in his face, pushing itself unto the crowded pathway, where walkers and workers trudge along their predestined path. But the wind is cold, and he looks into it, he looks at the institution, is this what I was destined for? All around him there are lies told to oneself, ignorance founded in oneself, delusions blessed by each other, dreams dreamt by another.
The cruelty of the institution saps itself into what we wish to believe. He walks, with the sounds of others footsteps guiding him, like beacons flaring in a darkening sound scape. beaming lights, screeching at a halt in the presence of a perceived ill motion. They are all walking in the same direction, going to the same class, taking the same courses. Directionless, bearing the fruits never, pushing into a wet clay wall, walking into the grips of White Death.
Death, is the failure of your course. Your ineptitude, naturally taking control of your life, guiding you to where you will eventually be, to what you will become.
And I look into to the cold winds, into the sun hidden in the clouds, shining arbiter. Destined hero of my dreams,who pursues the ineffable, the transient beam of hope that holds true in the gripes of reality. I look at these buildings, the grayness that chains me and becomes of me; the steel vibrating within the edges of my bones.
I am chosen, chosen to die chosen to buy chosen to fly. Chosen to continue forth, forthwith, wittingly and willing to take hold of the future. The future is in my hands, it is there.
I see the numbers, between the impulses that surge in and out of my brain. The impulse to conquer what I cannot see, to collapse that which does not concede. Because I am greater, I am future. Brazen in these cold winds, unshakeable in the coldest winds, corruptible only of my own willingness. For these numbers they sprawl and possess. They fall down and realign into something new, an interjection within the stagnant.
I will die at the mercy of the cement that holds these walls up. The relentless protuberance that extends this space. Standing taller than me and more known. Standing colder winds and beaming sun rays, standing years, and human eyes. I will become more than what is thought to be possible. The future beckons me, with one hand in front and the other reaching towards my mine.
We will do this together, traversing the coldest of landscapes, highest peaks of wintery revocation, a patroon of earned privilege.
I am future. Breaking what is known and thought. What should be correct. The status quo is interject able and illusory. It is malleable and definable. It is in my hands. And as I walk into the blackraven building, with its one eye focused on me, I present the future, in everything. Shining illustriously in the face of adversity, considering every possibility, processing immediately, and giving out my hand in help. For thees buildings will only define me temporarily. and they will become of me. I am the archetype of the world, constructing what has been built. I am possessive of my knowledge and my degree.
I can make it. and I will.
