Lunatic Fringe

When I believed I knew the soul was weak, when I believed I was prone to wishing, no longer do I believe, nor count faith amongst my vices- I can find no more use in perpetuating such folly. My design now is a grand scheme no greater than resignation, given to a fate, diminished to some destiny; though decidedly one out of my hands. No, my part lies elsewhere, alone in the interior, maybe in the depths of the un-quiet mind, maybe in the recesses of a black heart. A void anywhere else, but in my eyes and in my misgivings these are real promises. Perhaps now as I whisper I am dreaming, I realize now we are dying, and I see the finality of such a state -- even as it’s quite certain, if nothing else, that I am crazy. Even now it occurs to me -perhaps- I am wrong, though I guess that I am not; I’m never wrong when it comes to recognizing that familiar, unsettling, feeling which is the biased-arbiter, truth. Logic allows for only two ends, the truth -and it’s unsettling madness- or the quiet

What is a legacy, truly? How does one tackle the task-strictly in the mind of course-of being remembered? Is it enough that everything concerned him? The greater hope of that being that one was able to be shaped by the world as much as he shaped it. For better or worse that should be an obligation, at least I would like it to be so. Would it be best that everyone enjoyed his company, or greater still that everyone sought his counsel? Would it be better that everybody thought him to be just, or just that they counted him as a friend, for better or for worse these two very often are at odds. It is the quiet man who carries the burden of thought most heavy upon the back. Which should be of more concern in the mean time? The ability to avoid becoming encumbered by the world’s many measures in the short while (even as he is counted upon as a man of regard in the back-rooms of youth) or to become mistaken and confused by the many years that are to follow if the first task at hand is indeed g