Warning: The following prose makes no sense and has no socially redeeming value. It is not a reflection of anyone and is merely a refraction thereof. Read at your own risk and make of it what you will. Drinks are not on the house.
Some people are forever hell-bent on defying the laws of gravity. Yearning to turn the world on its end, they exhibit a penchant to disengage from the established order of things, the firmament on which lie the foundations of society.
They seem to thrive on chaos, embroiling themselves in one adventure after another. They soar … they crash … they burn … they rise again and fly sideways … smiling.
They are brilliantly stupid. Sublimely ridiculous. They make for perfect nonsense. Don’t question them and you’ll get many answers. They talk too much and say too little, hiding an encyclopedia of intent. And yet, they mystify you with their paradoxical nature. They are train wrecks in slow motion pulling into the station according to their own schedule … right on their own time.
Left to their own devices, they dissect themselves and throw the pieces of flesh in your face. A glass of tepid ice is offered to wash them down. “Save something for the poor” they suggest and reveal a ‘doggy bag’ with a hole at its bottom.
They ask for too much then walk away with too little. They swallow things whole and then spit out bits undigested. They leave table scraps and walk off with the table-cloth. They steal packets of ‘Sweet’N Low’ and leave the sugar untouched.
They demand your attention only to defy your expectations and follow their own whims. They have but one card to play: themselves. “Nothing up my sleeve” is heard muttered with a straight face and grinning demeanor. They laugh at their own jokes merely to distract you … and themselves.
Squirrel like, they zip from situation to situation laughing menacingly at mediocrity and conformity. They are crazed creatures that are notoriously difficult to pin down … precisely because they are exactly who they want to be and hate themselves for it, and perhaps even blame others, as well.
Their scorn, leaving no stone unturned, is more often than not turned inward against themselves. Masters of introspection, they come to realize they are their own worst enemies. In defense, they revel in their own stewing angst to lighten their emotional load. “Is the wine glass half filled or half empty?” they inquire just before they turn it on its end, upside down.
In debate, they are catty. Bewildered mice sweat nervously trying to gain some logical purchase to defend themselves from an onslaught of misdirected barbs. Attempts to reason with these types prove futile because after drawing first blood they parry with intentionally blunt points … and they poke mercilessly, prodding their adversaries along to dismay. In confusion, opponents jab and joust at air only to find that these harlequins have long lost interest and have flitted away.
Stupefied, you wonder what it is that makes them tick. But come now, surely you’ve known all along! They are tortured artists simply desiring to be wild and free, engaging life and flying on the wisps of their own bohemian creativity. And, perhaps to love and be loved … as we all do.
Alas, it’s only gravity that keeps ‘bringing them down’ to earth to face their pain. And thus the wry smile …