Stopped

As some of you may (or may not) have noticed, I recently changed the name of this page from Kenny Anton, Blog to what it is now. I changed it so it would more accurately reflect what I want this page to be: a place for me to share some of the stuff I write and for AJ to share the amazing photos she takes. Also, Kalex is a hybrid of our first names).

That being said, I wrote this piece over the past couple of days. Not sure what I wanted to say with it but it just sort of fell out of me. Also, regardless of what it may seem from reading this, I'm okay. Just dealing with some stuff right now.

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He thirsted so wholly for a life which existed just beyond his comprehension. The desire for what he always longed for, a life adorned with the accouterments and trappings of a joyful existence, tore at him ceaselessly, weighed him down like a gravitational blanket, never allowing him to fully stand.

Unattainable as it seemed to be, the thirst grew more intense with each passing day, becoming a mental dehydration, sapping even his will to live, draining his desire to continue on, living life as a husk of a man.

Ultimately, the desire bubbled to a roiling boil, a fire burning so intensely it threatened to scorch the last vestige of the person he could have been. It was at that point, the day he finally realized, in a defeated mindset, that he no longer cared to try, that was the day he stopped.

It was the day they ALL stopped, generations of secret co-conspirators, harboring dreams of becoming more than they currently were. They stopped dreaming: of setting big goals, of climbing new peaks, of adventuring to new heights, of pushing their limits, of a perfect freedom described by that which only their secret hearts desired…they stopped aspiring to be more than what they ever were. An entire childhood spent learning, an adolescence cultivated of daring and exploration, adventure and make believe, hoping and dreaming, relentlessly told to be bold and follow their dreams by the popular culture they so idolized, told at home that the idyllic lifestyle was a superfluous pursuit. These negative reassurances reverberated through their skulls, inevitably causing all ambition to come screeching to a deafening halt, abruptly stalled by the tireless grinding of adulthood and a society they no longer understood nor cared to understand; stalled by multiple attempts to regain emotional equilibrium with their self-made circumstances; stalled by a life they dutifully crafted but no longer felt compelled to keep living, bound more by financial security and societal obligation and less by joy and desire. Forever set adrift on the slow tidal pull of inevitable death, spirits eroded by the timeless crashing of life’s tsunamis, living a life they've erroneously convinced themselves they loved so wholly yet hated to live. As the weight of it all became too much to handle, too strong a headwind to push back against, they stopped.

Coincidentally, it was also the day they all died. Not a physical death mind you. Delivered not were they from the mundane doldrums through which they eternally toiled. Nay, it was the spiritual death. The kind of death that wipes the will to live from a body and leaves a directionless shell; an emotionless puppet dancing at the mercy of a psychotic marionette, left on autopilot to drift the remainder of their plotless course. Prisoners behind the stern, once able to recognize discomfort for what it was and rectify it, no longer willing to try.

They hoped every day for a reprieve from the suffering, an answer to life's great mystery. They shouted their existential inquiries to the four winds as their souls slowly drained. Every time they hoped for clarity, all the while not knowing their inquiries fell on deaf ears, receiving only an intuition to continue along on the drab gray highway of life as they drudged along, a sort of defeatist self preservation.

What they had forgotten at some point was the key to their own happiness had always resided inside them, ironically buried by now under a mountain of emotional self abuse and delusional double talk. Somewhere along the way they became deluded about the meaning of the journey, they fell in love with the idea of being miserable as a measure of comfort and convenience, of limiting themselves by buying into the idea that chasing their dreams was no longer a responsible thing to do. Somehow they were made to believe that the pursuit of happiness was secondary to societal contribution, that a responsible person should table their true desires in order to achieve a standard dream, a stranger's idea of utopian bliss, the lunatic machinations of a runaway democracy hellbent on total control. They held on to this deflating straw man life preserver for dear life as they slowly drowned in a sea of misery.

The key screamed from the bowels of their husks, yearning to be once again discovered, desiring nothing more than to be mated with the lock which would free their hearts from the voided chasm, releasing them from the bonds of eternal suffering, restarting the engine of their lives. All they needed to do was remember how to reach for it.

To this day, the key still lives there, begging to be unearthed. The answer to their suffering echoing through their skulls as they refuse to acknowledge it.

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