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Rated: E · Essay · Other · #1651811
Revised over the years; I guess it's telling of how a person becomes jaded with life?
        There are tears that are shed, by peoples who've stood to lose the very thing that gives any value to life; throughout history, dreams—of anyone who could ever hope to hold an imagination—are manifested in monuments to their perversion: our lives. The good-will of visionaries and revolutionaries have been sundered, doled throughout our social systems and abated.  In a process much like some type of alchemy, something as pure as the wish for euphoria for man transforms to a faded shadow that stifles our dreams; like a plague, we eat away at what is perfect—in the imagined—whilst we transform it to decrepit reality.
 
        We've forgotten the dreams of flying at the limits of the world, the majesty of the sun bathing our wings: it has all been vandalized by the folly of our own ignorant nature.  To possess the dream of being more than standard-issue—the desire for exaltation—is to have something of more value than all of the money in the world.  This thing as intangible as imagination is perpetually battered; these tears fall. In this reality, we are trained by repetition; whatever we may wish for will be ours, so long as we try hard enough.  In an attempt to realize such transcendence, we've invested our souls into the pursuit; our dreams are stolen and given to us are caricatures that extol systematic thinking. 

        Consider, for a moment: what would it be like if we could steal away to the fantasies of our imagination?  No longer would we be miserable creatures in farms of procreation, we'd become more: kings and queens of worlds that will never be rivaled by a parasitic reality.  These worlds of complete beauty and perfection would be our playgrounds in this masquerade of the imagination.  We could use our wings to fly to far away lands, soaring high above the mountains with the peoples of the sky.  Time would have no value within the realms of imagination: we'd spend an eternity at the gardens of the heavens and another eternity sailing on blue seas that take us to civilizations that could never otherwise exist.  A million years from now, we could explore distant nebulae and witness the birth of stars, planets, and galaxies—or ride on mythical beasts along rivers that would lead to waterfalls that spawn worlds of mist.  A billion years from a million years from now, we'd lie in fields filled with ancient flowers from aeons passed, watching the clouds as we dream of still more worlds that await.     
 
        The imagination begins to blur; injected into our very being is the poison of a precise reality. We stand here, dying, without even so much as the slightest desire to stare into the beyond, whilst being consumed by rapture.  We are beginning to realize that we are without will: rudimentary animals that can only do what is necessary to survive and nothing more.  Then, there can be no more tears, for we've become numb: because of the atrophy of the imagined, we are being robbed of the infinite, the wondrous, the priceless; treasures of all intangible fantasies continue to fade away.
 
        Opening our eyes, we begin to see an interpretation of reality that is presented as absolute; the inanity invokes resent for what is tangible, and desire to see clearly these fleeting reveries.  Psychologically molested, we've fallen into the ruts of the societal machine and burned away any trace of the imagination; and then adopted preordained goals—set forth by myopic, sycophantic pedants—that extinguish the dreams of any who should possess it.  We now exist as marionettes of a dead world that shambles towards oblivion; never again will there be phantoms to whisper to us the details of what has been extirpated.
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