In science fiction there is the concept of the cusp of civilization where it reaches a crisis point that decides whether it will survive into the expansive future, or destroy itself due to its internal contradictions and flaws. There is an issue inherent in human nature that pleasure and ease leads to weakness. And pain and need are the greatest teachers of who we are. As the saying goes, ‘smooth seas never a good sailor made’.
On the other hand, pain without reprieve, tribulations without hope, can lead one’s inner light to dim.
What is the balance? It is luck, and love. Finding strength and having enough chances pay out to bind together the bits of light until you can rise above the troubled waters and offer a hand to those still churning in them. It doesn’t change the world, it changes us.
Sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded.
Know that you’ll soon go crazy, just like a whittling stick
Hit by the coming daylight, cut up in a quick succession
A pointed confession, really stripped of all your armor
Down to your very nature
Beneath the haze and vapor gaze
You’re such a willing stick to beckon that wanting knife
And you’ve been looking for it — the right blade — all your life
Saying who’s gonna cut me down to a size that suits me?
Is there a worthy sculptor among all you fine young knives?
It’s enough to make you take your head and put it on a shelf
To cut the heart out from your chest
Now they’ll come for that as well
Tell me how you do that crazy trick where you walk around asleep
Save it for your doctor friend, the one who keeps you under lock and key
You’ll soon go screaming like a bargain basement lunatic
Who’s not so specialized that they couldn’t just replace you
Why don’t you start crying for all that you’ve got left here?
Why don’t you stop dying before you go and get it right?
Now you’re selling off the house so you can buy the farm
You cut that heart out from your chest to let the light in through your arm
Tell me how you do that crazy trick where you walk around asleep
Save it for your doctor friend, the one who keeps you under lock and key
It’s enough to make you take your head and put it in a bag
To cut the teeth out at the pink
Now there’s nothing in the bag
Foul weather friend, you are so dying
An amateur chemist now
King medicine, when is it perfect?
Where is it leading you?
There is no cure, only reprieve
Some fleeting joy posing as balance
Nothing is sure, every four hours
King medicine, this subject loves you
The Haunted Typewriter 