  A churning and foul haze has descended upon my realm like the stench of some god-awful landfill during a heat wave, long past its capacity. It is the oily and thick air of disgrace and of falsity that permeates humankind and pervades my daily life. I frown upon such things like one would an unexpected virus one attains quite suddenly one morning. It is an attack, unwarranted, unjustified and contrary to the rules of engagement. It is an act of war. In the depths of night, when you experience moments that seem to just stand still, there, if only for a brief second, exists a moment where you can become 'at one' with all else. In the cool breeze of the night and in the bask of pale moonlight, or even in the rustling of leaves, for a moment, nothing else exists. If you are fortunate enough, at that moment, no other living person will enter your mind and nothing at all will seem to creep into your mind.
It is a proud and solitary moment I experience continually and always have. For you see, I came to such stark revelations when I was merely young. Here we all are, cosmic pool balls on the vast plain of existence, colliding and rolling towards destiny. Predetermination? No. There cannot be a path in random events, such as chaos has no structure.
We live in chaos guided by rules, but there is no guarantee that rules always apply to everybody and everything. People are uncharacteristically precocious, more often they are synonymous with crude and distasteful idioms. I cringe at such endorsements, but to cringe is to set apart and apart am I. An ash is a fragment of something that was whole, now separated through immense heat and completely removed from the whole. I am that wayward cinder, an ashen nomad amongst the smoky winds of a crumbling and dying system, a muted knell at a funeral and the sweet smell of smoke, alarming...or perhaps tantalizing.
Optimism is for those who have no really lived. It is for those who have acquired enough to make them happy, but did not acquire them on their own merits. Somewhere overhead a bird circles looking for prey, high in the air, far removed from its preys habitat. While far below the prey watches and waits for the time to move. While the bird remains instinctually optimistic, the prey remains involuntarily reactionary, a victim of the whim of this world. Funerals for extinguished systems are an eye sore. Cry me a river for the departed and drown in the ocean such sorrow can only bring about. I sometimes feel as though I was born at sea and I have always know I will die there. 
