F the Steps, Follow the Fool

I feel like this entire world is based on a staircase built with capitalism, idealism, egos, and aspirations. We all start out fresh on this bottom step, new, unprepared for the expectations of an ever-molding world. We have dreams of uniqueness, and individuality, all wrapped up in a clear package of success. And we are told to climb. On and on we go, up the stairs, just as we're told. Each step a new level in life, somehow given the self-importance of a fulfilling life if followed. Once we reach a new step, we congratulate the others standing on this step with us, pat them on the back, plan to beat them to the next step. And we scramble, oh, how we scramble for that next step. We acquire what defines us along the way. Monitored education. Stable job. 401K. House. Wife. Kids. Insurance. Car. Nicer car. christmascardsbillsdietplanscheapfoodbillsgymnewphonebillsnewtvtaxesmortgagebills. And so it goes. Until, we heave ourselves onto the last step. A comfortable retirement where we look back on the last sixty-five years of our lives and convince ourselves it was good enough. Nothing extravagant or ground-breaking came from your existence but you will turn to comfort words, convincing yourself you wanted: simple, peaceful, normal (ha). You will reach an age where wiping your own ass will become something along the lines of impossible. And it will be fitting. Someone else has dictated your life, and someone else will gingerly wipe the integrity from your aged and decrepit rear-end. You will look forward to   The Price is Right re-runs and beautiful little pills twice a day. The food will be sad. The company will be sadder. And then you will forget your name, your place, all those little things you let define you. You will forget your scramble up those crowded, certified-correct stairs. You'll forget eating, drinking, breathing. And all you will remember is s l e e p i n g.

And then there is the fool. As we all pushed forward to reach our next step, this fellow explored the house. Found wonders, found tragedy, found purpose and made memories. We all scoffed. We labeled. Idiot. Fool. Dreamer (as if it were a bad taste in our mouths.) And we confided in each other, found justification. Doesn't he know that to get to the next step he has to be on this one? Silly, little fool. I will pity you, we say. But, no, it is not he who we pity. We pity ourselves. We pity what we have done to our lives. We mourn for what we will never know.The spontanaity. The rush. The bittersweet taste and fulfillment of just bloody going for it. Dropping the most logical and hopping on the drive of a passion. And maybe, in the end, that old fool will have syphilis and one arm. No teeth and one hell of a story. Hopefully he'll have a little love, some simple joy, and God. Maybe all three, maybe none. But at least he will have lived each day closer to life, rather than died each day closer to death. Most of us don't have a day to live for yet. This old fool has a lifetime to die for.