If it is human to be part of the pack,
To socialise, and garner the approval of the set.
To be the star of the group,
The Go To one in a crisis.
If it is natural to be a social I creature,
Why is it I seek solitude?
Why am I red whilst everyone else is a varying shade of green?
When I puzzle at the workings of life,
Philosophising myself to oblivion,
The rest of the hardened herd
Live by the doctrinal outcome of their short answers?
It is as though, for them life is best of it is abridged.
I am pivitol, the rest are fixated by the search.
The majority are bereft of insight, and are like junkies.
Anchored by string theory and a text of decrypted patterns,
They are trusting junkies in the shoals of deception.
Their drug of choice is Data.
They are victim casualties of the cause of Digitalia.
If there were no engine of search,
They would abandon the quest.
When experiencing such dejection
It is best to return to the back of the queue of infinity.
This is where the others of the erased majority
Are standing in line, waiting their turn to be Metaphoricaly pulped.
They are individually gripped by inertia
And grouped under the heading of
It is not the place to be.
() 2018 Christopher Thompson
all rights reserved