The Impetus

THE STRANGLEHOLD THAT embraces our existences, might it best be described as a law, rather than a theory? Our very souls are hardened by its pull, and by my age, as remote to you as the struggles of a shifting landmass, one has already become callous to the pulse of acceleration. Sober, just, and having finally gained a fortified position against its current, that foothold preaches, in a steady, trustworthy tone, of my own fears, of things older than I, of the indelible echoes of their return.

They gain ever more force and soon, they will usurp me and lay my fortress to waste. 

These laws that we abide by are emboldened by our capturing them, striking them into stone. They have come to be settled, beyond the clouds and our grasp, a pantheon of shifting allegiances.

Is it the dropping knife, abandoned by colluders who see their duty done, that resonates on the cold, hard marble floor? Are these the halls of betrayal, heralds of impetus?

They too will flee, just as we reckoned theirs would outlast our own short rule. Should I hold currency in the laws that last, maybe those that themselves remain in constant upheaval? I must, as I am doomed to take their coin. I perpetuate, propagate, I procreate as any sentient thing. I perch atop many orders, refining my nest in dizzying heights, though these winds fluctuate endlessly. 

So much so that I, clinging to that ruthless ladder, present myself with the ultimate cause of self-confinement, that is, proactivity—I must predict—into the role of the hero who vetoes with impunity, who’s unending trial—I must protect—will speak to any era, belying the secret wish that he, and all of his petulant kind, must never see their reflections in, else their very truths be called into question; It is the creeping desire to stand still—I must prevail—that breaks them.