the chronicles of yeoncheon-gun: according to thom: Entertain us.

The Peripheral Way

Pushing chubby kids on a swing-set is equatable to doing pushups, while crouching below monkey bars to carry forth excitable youngsters by shoulder is certainly preferable to squats at the gym.

A raging class of pupils will wash away timidity much faster than a succession of unimpressed girlfriends ever will, and two rivaling grades will battle over your playground prescience; so forget any lingering notion, or lack of notice thereof.

And how to reminisce about lives that could have been? Curling a soccer ball into the uppermost corner to the rapture of elementary school students is strangely similar to the foregone conclusion of my college soccer career.

It's the peripheral way.

Preferable I'd say.

Preferable to the maturity which lingers within the external boundaries of our generation, our gender roles naked knowledge, our paths insubstantial; we float in our own definitions. But still there are ways.

Ways which are incorrect when political, and short the increasing trends of correctness. We have our greatest ironies of twisted shields: that our truths are more self-righteous than our beliefs.

So when and why it was; that learning from children nulled my conceptions into maturity, rather than did an entirety of life as a child? The answer presents itself much simpler than the questions.

Who am I?

From whence comes our value? …And what makes us socially desirable?

And what, O what, is 'love'?

It is here we were lost and found between two disengaging and aging roles.

When it was.

Everyone said. Entertain me.

Entertainment as a sort of instant gratification which yields any a friend of time and place, yet they become both cumbersome and fragile; icicles frozen in remonstration.

Entertainment is all anyone really asks of me.

It makes me sad, somber, and willfully shallow. I need not the great wars of our fathers, nor the struggles of scraping the bottoms of waterless ponds. - Only a willow of hope, a preoccupation short of dreams proffered as realities, reaching like laughter filled with gratification, towards branches never to be reached.

Yes, hope, thought of as our friend, yet only a concept remolded for incessant consumption.

Every day we trade the potentiality of our mistakes for the comforts of hopes, and like the never-ending story, our memories fade like that which may never happen.

We have only our subscriptions to happiness. An influx of answers amid a darkening of buried questions.

Sagely said, "One's own soul, and the passions of one's friends--those were the fascinating things in life," were Wilde's words. Yet as I write of these things, they seem to be at once part of the very thing we don't speak of, much less share. That is, simply stated - who we are, and who think others to be. Despite this, my perceptions have more willingly begun to capture the brevity of life, and I will continue on, finding these things easier to share. Past all the bluster and pride, after all, we are much the same. Indeed, as we become less distinguishable, we also become less vulnerable. And so, beyond the ostensible, such thoughts will take their firmed reality within this page.

The story so unfolded. A story continuing within itself, continuing within answers sold as choices. Our choices are flavored by their pre-selected origins, and are as placid as no choices at all.

And, Ohh, how we've learned to entertain ourselves as well now…

Self-entertainment, the guise for distraction, litter for the mind. Cup my freedoms into the hollows of the printed. Lay forth the tracks for the ticks in my mind; my rebellious thoughts no longer quelling forth. Take me for a ride, keep me in transit. Prescribe the rain for my showers; let me flow through without discerning thoughts. Fight the internal clocks, and wind my answers within concrete times which are obligatorily in weight.

Now I is re-defined. I'm all-incumbent and ever-compulsory.

Warp me, so serenely, from the confines wrapping of my lucid mind.