The Cliff Of Clones

A short view of my take on modern society

I sit with fear, to write. As if thoughts are impervious to capture. Or, moreover, worthless to recall. This time is of stale nature, and I find myself lost behind its withering taste of originality. Our repetition is our downfall, as well as our resolution. I am not blind, such as to assume that much has been accomplished without dedication, or repetition. Still, I find it a waste, to spend life aroused by the same routine.

A fear of regret, is a resounding call to step off the cliff of clones. Albeit a lonely affair, I find comfort in self, to trump the comfort of others. For me, more often, the birds offer equally pleasant conversation, and I wish to retire to their calls. But as we build, our boxes get dense, and our space confined. The bird will be nesting with prison twine. The oak that once stood, strong and firm, denounces its earthly duties. For knowing, it is better to bow out gracefully, than to drown in the smog.