More strings of invidia

First, a lie: it is quite incongruent of me to occupy a certain fondness. I am neither invincible nor reckless. I have chosen to remain in that comfortable point between blue and grey, suspended in contentment and forestalling, equally impartial to bliss and ache. Acknowledging a lie — its intangible presence, molding it into reckless declarative — doesn’t necessarily make it sincere either. Yet I am diffidently celebrating it — in spite of myself, in spite of my many misgivings, in spite of my inability to properly honor its subtlety, its nobility. It is imprudent to argue with enduring patience and admirable diligence.

I fear I am depleted of genuine excuses.

The more I rationalize the less logical I become. Nonetheless there is one thing I hold true: it never was, and definitely not, an intrusion; it calmly revels in dignified liberty, tolerant, steadfast and downright respectable in its self-defeating magnetism. The manifestations sprout from overlooked corners, edging progressively, like a sprout in search of much-needed  illumination. All at once everything dissolves into cliche bouillabaisse. Even the most maudlin lyrics of schmaltzy songs make unqualified sense: seamless, translucent, blinding in its probabilities. Also incredibly threatening the very spirit of self-preservation.

From a subjective vantage point I can sum up the significant options: heed its  beckoning or bolt the floodgates of consent.

Either choice seals a complete decline and fall. Icarus, in a sudden burst of recognition, realized its cruel wisdom whereupon plummeted in complete rapture. While I sit by the turnpike, a spectator to the great plunge, consumed with amazement, dread, compassion, shame.

And envy.