It doesn’t really matter where you came from, who you know, none of it. They try to teach you that in school, possibilism, don’t let your background determine your future you stupid social Darwinists, how dare you corrupt the lives of our precious young flowers whose virgin petals have yet to be blemished by the evils of society. Damn you, you nonbelievers, you angsty teens who commit shameful pre-marital deeds in the dark of night under the cover of shady street lights bolted to the crumbling bricks on the back walls of sweaty, throbbing nightclubs where the next cohort on the “damned list”, the dealers of illicit substances, feed off the nervous adrenaline of all teens (for all surely must be undignified), acting as malicious predators as they stalk and hunt their innocent, fresh prey: the young decrepit flowers. These flowers have been made weary and have seen the horrors that only time can tell, of course! of course! For this is the work of that web, that horrible main of a thing that the eight-legged beast who stalks the night (no, not a quad of…ladies of the night) sculpts like “David”: the spider web. This web ensnares every flower from bud to blossom in its trap, its ingenious, sticky trap, allowing every flower in the world to spread its virgin petals out to other flowers and predators and ladies of the night and Michelangelos and Jack Kerouacs and fluffy felines harassed into riding atop mechanical floor sweepers like kings on golden thrones. However, it is possible that there is a possibility of possibilism affecting these spunkfilled, rueful teens who can’t think a damn good thought for themselves if they were held at gun point by that wolf who has a fine hankering for daisies in the meadow some swell evening approximately ninety-two minuets and thirty-seven seconds after curfew. Although, I truly do regret to inform you, my dear snowflake, that this possibility, this—cure, per say only comes in a dead language: literature. Hate to break it to you, but this time there is no “onesizefitsallpremoteequalityformychildbecausesizedoesntdefineyou”. Philosophy isn’t just handed to you, it’s earned, it’s learnt. Sorry if it isn’t fair that you, for one day, one hour, one minuet, one second, will have to open up a book or read a poem to gain this enlightenment. But look around, only of course if it’s no hassle for you, if your head isn’t iron maiddened into that spider web of yours, then maybe you’d notice the possibility of possibilism that floats around you, suffocating the educated as they watch you drown in your naiveite. For any literate person could tell you that there are two types of stock characters that recognize this route to DIYing their realities: the Holden Caulfields and the Jane Eyres. The Type Ones are the Holdens, the Lucien Carrs of the bunch, the flowers who bloom from a wealthy garden with rich soil, families that bare their children complexes of great—well—complex, let’s call it a first-world complex (though the term “first-world” truly means nothing the like). Simply put, they’re tired of being a living façade, the epidemy of the angsty, rebel teen, who has everything but wants nothing. On the other hand, there is the Type Two, the Janes, the Jughead Jones in life. They strive to be better, surrounding themselves with flowers from Better Homes and Gardens backyards. From the beginning, their petals are tainted, stained with the hauntings of poverty, starvation, but they long for something more, they are the end all be alls of inferiority complexes, born and raised. Most of you, nonetheless, miraculously have stuck with this rant of a poem, believe me this is not the post-war Beat Generation or page—what is it—75 if I recall correctly of Franny and Zooey in which Salinger goes on well passed needed, and in great detail if I might speculate, about the contents observed by old Bessie in a medicine cabinet—oh no, that’s not me. This is merely a poem, written by some bread and circus, wisenheimer, “virgin” flower not hoping to make a name for herself.
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