Life Inside a Cactus

The life inside of a cactus cuddles and caresses the very sense of self, for what is a thought without a silent prick or two in an arm or a leg? Many desires are discovered within the quiet confines of a spindly cactus tree. For example, the first experience I had within a cactus was very unfamiliar, and even uncomfortable at first, but following a millennia or two within such confines I established quite an agreeable habit for nesting or relaxing among the welcoming arms of a desert succulent. I learned instantly what dry souls are made of and exactly why they lack the vigor to sustain any sense of coercion as to being willingly malleable to any intellectual degree. I know the confines of a cactus may not initially appear to be so invitational, however, how can one veritably know what oneself is actually composed of without first discovering that which is disagreeable? And I am not outright saying that the existence within a cactus is disagreeable, but it might point out those idiosyncrasies of self that are not so desired, and yes, we can alter or manipulate those very aspects I here discuss. We humans are not the resolute statues we often come to represent; we are in fact capable and blooming of directions ineffable.

Before sitting myself within a cactus of such distinction, I felt fairly lost in many ways. I knew not what to make of these rounded, painless curves of existence that are so prevalent around us, these simplified ideals and comforts that dwell always in view. These structures and ideas we are so accustomed to hold us in childlike regard in that nothing or nobody wishes to invoke any capricious desire as to alter the scene.

The softened flow of our terrain resembles to me the lack of movement, the lack of desire inbred within the confines of self. The natural confines of existence ask nothing in return, ask nothing of change, but instead encourage the resignation of sharp edges, of newness, of renaissance. We are expected to whither complacently, satisfactorily, not questioning the why or invoking in ourselves the overt emission of quest; but what if we for a moment step back, gather up a handful of breaths and prove to ourselves that this lackluster surrounding of comfort that we are so encompassed within is nothing but a degradation of our very selves, an affidavit informing us that our sole purpose here is to resign our wishes and dreams to settle for the populous acceptance?

The American Dream. Populous acceptance. The American Dream is the death of independence, the death of individuality, and the death of the actual dream. The American Dream is a trap. And what befuddled fellow founded this idea anyway?

So, with a deep breath I continue. To be within a cactus is to feel a sting and a prick here and there, but it is also to feel something only the few are fortunate enough to experience: the risk. The risk, the gamble, the cherishable now and not what if. Inside the arms of a cactus one may discover what it is one does not wish for: to never have to make a choice.

Must we be spoken for?