They say we’ll never make it, but I don’t believe them. Life is a cruel machine. It holds us prisoner, and then it spits us out. We were always doomed, even before we breathed our first. If it’s not death, then it’s not fitting into what society expects of us. They say be different. Be unique. But only if it suits the needs of the many. If you truly step outside the lines, they’ll sooner write you off as a lunatic than hear what you have to say. But who cares if they’re listening or not. We don’t need the minds of insects to dance amongst the stars. We discover love on the brink of despair. We find magic where nothing else grows. Sometimes it gets too much. The horrors of living are inescapable even in fantasy. Yet if for only the briefest of moments we can feel something more, we will have touched upon greatness. The universe won’t remember us, but we would’ve fought a good fight. We would’ve embraced nothingness and laughed in the face of God. All the lost vigilantes, trying to be real in an age of discontent. Reality a burden when living is too much. The body breaks, but who needs a body when passion drives us far beyond the realms of soft machines. Father spits in the kitchen sink, his cancer taunting as he struggles to eat. Others mock good intentions, so eager to become what they think is right. They think they know it all, yet they just follow without ever questioning the nature of who, and what, they are. They worship money. They adore image. And they don’t understand a thing about what it means to be alive. That’s why I’m on the outside, and there’s no other place I’d rather be. Come find me. Come peek through the pines.