Into the Cornfields.

The difference between a literary and a journalistic text is often misunderstood. I have opted to assume a somewhat journalistic stance before the commencement of this next piece however, I do not wish to be constrained by the crude dusty chalk lines that are etched around this style of writing...'if by dull rhymes our English must be chained' so to speak...

Frankly, at this point in time, there is little that I do care about and yet I desperately wish I could alter this confining frame of mind...freedom and passivity is actually quite a confining state of being as there is very little one can feel or do when they have reached this 'ultimate' position...Perhaps it really is 'lonely at the top' on more than one level..- if only we had the intellectual capacity and possessed enough patience with our stunted faculties of understanding to appreciate this notion. If we did, we would not continue to pursue that which is ultimately futile, we would not find ourselves racing away from our lush homely valleys into barren grounds that are weighed down with the mottled carcasses of those who once found themselves here...in much the same fashion that we have found ourselves here now..

It is an old tale if one considers it, - Keats touched on it in the ballad entitled la belle dame sans merci, an 'ancient ditty' as Prospero would have it, as the knight sojourns in the foreign land 'alone and palely loitering'... perhaps we are all enthralled by the wild wild eyes of those faery children that wander the earth unrestrained...How do we resist the sweet melodies that charm us like dumb serpents eagerly slithering to our demise? If we eliminate the notion of pursuing that which we long for and yet cannot essentially obtain, would we be happier? Or simply obedient followers of unschooled ignorance? What exactly is success? What defines this, and how does one separate the tangled wires that mesh together to make up this absurd concept? Can we, as limited beings obtain success? Does success define happiness or is it quite the opposite? Why do we constantly grapple with theories that we never actually pay much attention to when human nature overcomes us...? And lastly, are we all essentially servants of Eros when all the glitter, foils and civilised jargon is stripped away? How much can we control in terms of who we are and when the moment arises when one must venture out into the cornfields, why is it so difficult to define how we feel?

She wandered lonely as a cloud, and strained to hear the music, yet still she followed the white noise in her mind and ignored the rusty chains that clung to her ankles. The cornfields. How does one refrain from looking back?

Salt crumbled beneath the stones, and like a newborn her hands stretched out to touch, her nose lifted and her eyes opened, her tongue slid slowly over the parched lips...but she still could not hear the music.