I am going to get a lot of old keys, put them on a large key ring, then give them to a random stranger and say, “You will need these when the time comes.” Then walk away.
You spin all around in circles, hoping that you never – touch the ground
High above the sky you’re flying, wishing, praying- that you never feel a thing
Numb to all that lies around you – you wish to be free from all of it
Watching from a safe distance, you choose to let it all – fall behind
You are so much better, so much greater – than you were before
Seeing all the other people caught up in revenge – and settled scores
You wish to be free from it, you wish to set your – weary head to rest
Walking around like nothing matters, living life like it is – just a waste
The poor man must be far the greater. He has no commitments that hold cumbersome against his free will. No reasons to implore him to wheeled in any direction at all. There is just openness for the man that has nothing, a string of choices that will never, certainly, come to an end. How must the limitless man feel as his eyes set upon the open sky? As they see all the heightened freedom that they too own. It must create a feeling that they collect deep inside of themselves. The empty men hold the fullest.
How envious all others must be, for they cannot freely traverse the road as the poor man can. Feelings are infinite for the man with no belongings, bound to nothing but the thoughts and ideals that pass through his mind, which is as free as the breeze moving along an ocean shore. Friends are many to the poor man. They are made, and they stay strong, through any duration of time, friends who share the feelings of the open night, and who have as well wandered endless roads. Bonds, which are created when there is nothing else left, are the strongest of all, holding fast when moments are tense and dire.
The poor man is gracious. He has nothing, and asks for nothing. To obtain is to feel, and that is the only purpose for the man without.
Home is not in the vocabulary of the poor man. He knows it is but a fallacy, created for those who are cemented to the ground, which they have walked on all their lives. Building up walls is the same as setting an anchor, when all the poor man can do is sail. Sail freely and religiously through experiences unknown.
The poor man is a time traveler. He crosses moments and settings, visits places that he must turn his back onto, and never see again. Through everything the man with nothing grows, he flourishes in the sun and in the darkness. Learns through the floods and the disasters that befall him, and remembers the time that he has been. With all the things the poor man has seen, with the weary and joyful eyes of the traveler, the poor man lives eternal.
No sweet grace was given to the poor man. He was talentless. Bound to work for the sweat that he created.
The poor man is humble, carrying around only his own weight. He understands his ways and the precautions he must take, as well as the risks and the joy that he risks leaving unturned. He does not compare himself to others, only admires the monuments, which stand looming around him. Seeing everyone as people, and people as everyone.
Oh, how I envy the poor man. Who knows not about the burdens of my material wealth, how I wish to be as free as the sky itself.
It’s going really good. I am making a lot of good, new friends and I’m really getting into the swing of college life. It’s nice to be somewhere other than home as well, though it will also be nice to go home in November.
- Modern Culture: Fuck bitches, get money
- My Friends: Disrespect women, obtain currency
We made her a house.
My sister’s hedgehog.