I know I am lying when I say NO EXPECTATIONS.
In the moment that my friend told me that her views had changed, there was less judgement and more concern. I didn't jump straight to thinking that she was wrong, but rather I was worried about her wellbeing. She is young, naive, always has been. A year ago, she would have been me and I would have been her. You see, I was always the one with a sort of self-destructive streak inside of me. Sometimes it was never intentional, but it was a part of who I was. And after a few good years of living my life, having "fun", I was starting to realize that my views were wrong. I was stealing away the possibility of happiness for myself later on. And now a year later, my friend is doing the same thing. The only thing that has changed our lives is that I have found people in my life who support me in the right ways, while she has simply found one person who is leading her down paths she vowed never to visit. It is just sad, really, because I see myself in her. She has no clue how much she is going to miss those pieces of herself and how hard it will be to get parts of them back. She doesn't even realize she will lose some aspects of herself forever from this point of decision.
We were looking through the void for a better method of document delivery. A system to get our forms to their targets. A message-launcher, or something to that effect. But what we found blew our minds. Deep into our research we realized that banality needs equipment to be transferred from one person to another. Inconsequential data is dependent on the mechanisms of man, the tools of technologically savvy people. Banality thrives on information systems and populates in the minds of misguided seekers. It infests those who are greedy for more information, who are looking to be one rung higher on the knowledge ladder so that they can look down on whomever they are seeking to look down upon. They are looking for a better view, but their sad accumulation of information blocks their vision, until, in their highly elevated misery, they climb right off the top rung and plummet to their doom.
Maybe he was unwinding from his day of of doubt. Maybe he was re-thinking his pursuit. Whatever it was, his heart hurt and he knew he was stressing about silly things. Life. What is it but a playground with birds and trash cans. What is life but randomness and chance, where ignorant middle-class bystanders talk of such ridiculous things as “Luck” and “Karma,” with totally serious expressions on their faces. A queen could fall in the mud, and a hobo could steal a piece of meat… it means nothing. It says nothing about either of them. What makes them different? Chaos. Neurons. And psychological inertia, or lack thereof. They are both the victims of unseen agendas of spiritual forces. What is life but a platform for spiritual warfare. What is life other than a chess board for greater spiritual beings? Traps for fools, I say. And if we stress about the randomness and meaningless placement of the pieces, we will find ourselves trapped.
The arguing erupts an artist's harboring calm. A mom a fond lawn knew once as a yawn to call on. Easy pickings, a blissful mission. Ambition in the ambient stored soul. A written man venting is mortal self. The quest yonders down the dirty clothes. Garments grasps stains from the gardens grass. Gain will clean it..