Falling Backwards

Arms to the sides, knees slightly bent, he closes his eyes and leans slightly back.

There is nothing more elusive than the function of spontaneity. Most men will merely reach out to it aimlessly. In rare moments they may act by a certain whim and consider this, for the moment, to be its face. Yet like a faint sound which echoes from all directions, no one really knows where it is or how to actually live a life which embodies it fully. Such is the stuff of falling backwards; sacrificing safety for the sake of sheer wonder. The nature of faith is brought to light here, as it is the indispensable ingredient which allows it to bloom. Without faith a man cannot, and will not, be made intimate to spontaneity, for she is a jealous lover that knows no bounds.

Men are machines, yet have the possibility laid deep within their essence to be so much more. Their habits are laid by brick and mortar, through the lessons of the didactic method and the pedants who preach its gospels. The bird of carefree imagination begins its season of life and is turned very soon into a parrot which repeats prose after prose for the satisfaction of crumbs. In the wake of these habits the boy finds himself ensnared by a hypnotic song which forever more binds him tight, anchored to a chair amidst a crowded room. What happens now he never quite understands, except that he walks, talks and breathes in accord with all the other ants as they march downwards in stride.

From the land of habits, we arrive to the shore of laziness. Every gear and bolt, lay as they may, bequeathes a separate line of sloth. He is lazy for he is safe behind the bars of habit. The sheer degree of will and strength required to adopt a new posture of thought, emotion or movement against the tide of such sheer gravity, is staggering. He cannot even make efforts to sweat for it, however much he may find himself yearning. For spontaneity exists only amongst free creatures, the savages who find themselves untarnished from modern civility. The ladders of labour and the shops of silk have all been designed to keep men satisfied by the endless facets of pleasurable living.

And with all this said, we find men’s aspiration still reaching back and forward in the present moment for a way to attain this elusive reality. Every man knows underneath his branded persona that what matters most is access to a source of pristine creativity. A well from which we may endlessly draw copious cups of creative delight. To answer our questions, and question our answers, freely and without limits or bounds. He thinks of it, and even dimly tastes it in the air, but never acts beyond a knee-jerk movement towards its rising. The weight on his shoulders is too great and the list of chores too long. He knows that he must face many aches in order to supplant habit with spontaneity, and laziness with play.

He believes he has something to lose, though he doesn’t. He is paranoid that he may lose his place, though he never had one. The thought appears to him, like a demon whispering from behind, that what he wants does not even exist. The inner dramas unfold, voice after voice shouting to be heard, until no more energy remains. In hindsight and with insolent foresight, a man must simply jump from the cliff of doubts and into the abyss of chance. There is no other way, for none other actually exist, but to attempt to attain a lifestyle which covets the unknown above any other prize. The fanciful trends that the packs of fashion follow like hounds upon a scent must be left solely to senseless animals.


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