This Is Just A Test
This interminable restlessness, this subjugation of will to a game of chicken, extends into abject failure. The game no longer achieves honor, no longer demonstrates an untemperable spirit. Rather, the player plays its role conspicuously as a masked coward, so obviously pained to bear out a strength it can’t muster, though the audience hushes.
Honor, strength of will, is borne by temporal mastery, by an execution of duty no matter the maelstrom of detraction and insurgency. The proletariat-by-choice, and not the unbridled madman, will achieve, will reach and find purchase.
Another unnecessarily late night, as seen through burning eyes, replete with reflexive criticism, or guilt, and a more granular realization of how much is left to learn toward any measure of maturity. The cycle is vicious, is both tenuously trivial and deeply affecting, a swarm of potential failures greeting any opportunity, which only feeds the urge to withdraw, which only frenzies the swarm, etc., ad nauseum.
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