Before I grew old, I had hopes and dreams, I believed in things like God and other super-beings. Before all the death and chaos I thought I had a purpose. Before the infinite suffering and anti-climatic days I believed in happiness. Before I grew old I believed in innocence. We are all guilty, the only innocence left on this planet lies within our children. Personally, I wish I could take some of my daughter’s innocence and bottle it up, that way when she gets older I could pop that bottle like champagne and give her a spoonful, in hopes of saving her from herself.
Before the madness, I was whole, at least I thought I was. Now my pedantic conscience owns me. Every breath, every step, every word…pecking on my skull with a reflex hammer. I’ve taken heed, stopped fighting, accepted it. Now I embrace it, envelope myself with it, hold it like a teddy bear and rock myself awake. Eyes wide shut, I’ll never see me coming. While I shed tears my conscience strokes my malignant ego. Every nervous anxiety riddled breath I take makes him stronger. He used to be a hamster in my head running on a wheel, now he’s got horns and a cape, sitting in the drivers seat in the spaceship capsule that is my head. Before I grew old, the world told me how to think, what to do, what I should be, what I should wear. I tried to think for myself for years, then gave up and saturated my body with multiple chemicals to shut it down. Two years with a clear head and one epic battle with my malicious conscience later…now I sit shotgun chain smoking while he drives us around mountains with cliffs on one side and falling rocks on the other with a beautiful crestfallen wintery mix of snow and rain descending from celestial dark clouds. The mountain has no top, no peak, no end, no beginning, just round and round, up up up. My conscience and I, ride or die, till the wheels fall off.
Before I grew old…I was sane