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Little Bored Fauntleroy.

the boredom that kills us moves like a polar shift in the realm of emotional ethers where life crosses between the imaginal margins, and with a slight modification on perspective, becomes the embodiment of living ideas… boredom kills us all slowly because we believe what we are told when we are told that we should actually know better than to be this stupid, to be pro-active is a common sense that very few people seem capable of having in common to anyone or any aspect as though everyone we fully aware of their psychic nature, but this never stops us from us assuming that we think we have proof of the absolute truth… where are WE as a people when there seems to be very little real community between you or i or the rest of the vivisected welfare classes isolated from us?… the stations of rich and poor have not been newly explored by scientists nor philosophers for the millennia that money and the division of labor have brought us all at odds with each other as work and finance in a dilapidated culture has bankrupted the Muse’s vibrant and creative life, as a proxy to our own lives, and it begins to flicker and fade as the indolent consensual reality shatters like a mirror… the beast that encompasses that story, with the shifting aspects in class welfare and awareness of the biased power struggle Here, is impetuous jinx and imp of the perverse in regards to defiling this humanity’s precarious steps toward sanity… coming to confront this anti-soul is a part of the challenge among those ignorant of respect for another’s truth while still interacting within the spectrum of fragile reality, easily torn by the hurtful freedoms we each take for granted in our turn as the bodies drop used to the floor, but not in the form of the dying only the signal broken from that place beyond the paradigm of space and time that holds our world in a box… where we meet the Self does not enforce an explosion/ implosion-type scenario beyond the initial epiphany, but rather we finding ourselves all subduing our dreams to try participating in the ‘rags-to-riches’ subplot because the presence of wealth is an idolized symbol made coveted tool of the damned and egocentric, what other reason would there be to reinforce such an obviously speculative and exploitative ideology in a culture which vocally prides freedom as a pinnacle of the desired outcome?… the tale of Little Lord Fauntleroy is one that seems innocent enough at first, as the young boy comes to learn after his father’s death that he has aristocratic relatives who want him on their side of the Atlantic, and his grandfather the Earl comes to America to retrieve the boy… the story, originally a serial published at a time when ‘genteel poverty’ meant that there was much unreasonable austerity and respect given to the wealthy, but no proof has ever been given that any of those at that higher most echelon had gone through the process of struggling for their wealth… like anyone else in this incarnate world, the wealthy are oblivious to the privilege they enshroud themselves with once deemed successful in playing the games of power, and can easily relate their own attitude of considerably minor suffering to that of the many and nameless downtrodden in an exaggerated albeit genteel way… excluding themselves in their own minds from the one-track greed of the consumer plague, though many are and have been on the starting line to retract from these strange and excitedly shallow people, and the ideas that they try to spread like some kind of low intensity germ that slowly begins to bring others with wealth around to their purview of rationalization… the Little Lord pandemic hit in the late 1880’s, and the denizens of this time period were so in love with the carrot waving idea that they too could be a prince in a pauper’s clothes that literate madness the equivalent of Potter-mania today became a show-stopper as the clothes made the young man, the idealized form of boy-king turned into a fashion statement back then… the prince and the pauper, show stopper, babbler-dabbler self-confessed criminal… once all the dust settled, and the world renewed this idolatry for wealth in an increasingly closed off idea of the destined and free wheeling soul of choices to be made and damned in a day, the king for one moment while the stupidity is forever… and nothing lasts forever, even the concepts change their places in the dancing moments as they drift and decay like hourglass sands or hands of the clock, it is we who remains this way… the true Self lurking always in that subtle weight…

Thanks, khet.