Grey Hairs

One should refrain from practicing philosophy until one has grey hairs.

By the same nature as evolution, self-importance, acceptance of fate, self-delusion and valuation of the status quo are the tenets of worthless old men, all the ones who live to see their grey hairs.

A human life on its own is wasteful and worthless, and doubly so for every minute that it continues to grace the Earth, and so the best and brightest of us all are the most adeptly worthless –

Whose words can feed the masses and their bottomless pockets – whose calls for grace and servitude, gratefulness and piety, respect for the elders and the soon-to-come future of mankind earn the most from the worthless, many, many men.

Damn to Hell the lot of you sick dogs, stuck through with dreams brewed by others and sent into your ears while you slept. Your innocence is a prize I will never reclaim, your hearts sick with a kind of virus that is cleansed with lethal fire, your remains to be buried in steel and concrete so-as to save the rest.

In my prayers, and the prayers of my children, will be the stories of you to-day, of the insurmountable human heart, driven skyward and round-about to pierce itself. And our children and our Gods will shudder to hear what we were capable of then, what we did to each-other, because our hearts abused us – and our minds were never there.

What need have I for a face and a name, this additional cry out into the endless noise, the raucous din, the shrieks of all humanity up and out on this layer of black we can all feel rising up between our toes – and try as we might it rises still, and we can see the cold in the way it eats the light. All of us lot shudder to know – as it rises – that lurch-to-be when our loins are lost into the nothingness. And what then?

We see it coming.

Will we tear ourselves apart? Will we dip in the rest of the way to save the suspense – add to the first shock all of the rest of it – and hope then, when we move to breach again, that the ink comes away from our eyes – that the surface will break away from us, and not hold elastic like a cellophane film? Whose microscopic barrier will never again grace our lungs with air, until we thrash ourselves lastly, heaving in icy needles of ink and choke – gone to the void and the rest of it –

A monument on a lonesome silicate mass, sought after for billions of years thereafter, but never found, until even the seekers meet this end. Then the universe itself stretches out, and exhales, and sleeps.

What do I care for the hearts of humankind?

What is a voice out of the corner of a mouth, in earshot of a puppet, in the greatest convention in all the world?

What does it matter to me the few who pass by, and listen, and leave a coin?

Did they hear me? Did I matter?

Have I done it?

Have I saved the world?