Density of the Soul

*** Philip Glass' Facades running as I composedly compose

As I age, the idealist occupying a corner of my soul seems to constantly soften. I feel like she will succumb to some foreign force and melt down at some point or another, if not metamorphose into vapor and vanish before.

Two years ago, perhaps three, I remember sitting down on my chair on a nondescript 3 AM night, making some incendiary promise to myself, that my body will lay cold and pale before setting free my idealistic visions.

Years have passed since then. Now as a wretched figure - aged and grayed - I stare at my young self, captured in a moment of sentiment as streaming feelings of proudness and concern mix and flutter. Proud of my youth's purity, and concerned to see that exact shade of white being tarnished and spat upon in the earliest future.

You and I both know that even the strongest locks rust with time, that pinkie promises break just as easily as the flexing pinkie itself. Time never messes up. The constant beat of tics and tocs never digresses from the system. My knees gravitate towards the ground.

But a hunch tells me something is off. Intuition tells me that the same hunch has bothered geniuses of all ages, lifting them to rise against the conception of rational mind - the acceptance of reality. The hunch is enough to align me shoulder to shoulder with all the preceding skeptics - the irrational genius. Revolution derives its power from a single step. Am I mistaken? Do we have it wrong? What meaning is to be made out of the miscarried revolution?

Whatever. Here I am now, revisiting my fateful promise. I feel my wrinkles undoing their curves, faded hair returning black and vernal, knees unbending. Heart pulsates.

I think I might just collapse towards the sky

Mmmm, I smell genius.