mattx owns you.

Potential is a shoddy tavern with 3 rag tag regulars
A dive bar with an aspiring new owner who can't wait for his vision to blossom
A hole in the wall nestled in a "cute" or "quaint" portion of the village
A district of the village that thrives on a sparse community yearning to save itself
A community who's only desire is to reconstruct the dream of their town
A town that holds the same promise as fluffing a pillow


Promise is a lidless jar of mismatched screws and little hardware
A bottomless go-to scenario that always takes donations but rarely coughs up solutions
A container that sits on the top shelf, all alone near the back
A shelf who's dominant feature is it's layers of dust and safe height away from children or pets.

Faith is a home made splint on a compound fracture.

Hope is a morsel instead of a meal.

Dreams are the plague you can't face when your eyes are opened.

Adventure is a system of micromanaging your mortal thresholds.

Desire is a one person hug.



And you are measured in your life by these earthly units of standard that wear mythic robes.



You are held up to the sun, or under the magnifying equipment, only to be compared amongst the ant farm.


Just one ant. One of millions.
A 'special' little ant that has been programmed to try harder.
And not only thrive, and maintain a sense of self in this ocean of millions.
But to extend your hands to the heavens and pull down some sort of triumph.
A triumph that sets you apart.

Like a karate trophy proudly displayed amongst your many years of spelling bee accolades.
Both of which you were talented enough to get, but only one of which carries any sort of mainstream respect.

All of which were obtained while digging out your little section in the dirt.
A life long personal victory that will in the end, just be "paving the way for the greater good".


To excel at these facades makes you a hero that still dies alone.
Who lives forever in stories and tribute,
But ultimately is a decaying mass buried to refuel the very earth
That he or she just tried to survive on.


In all of this, my true respect only goes out to one soul.
The one being that saw all this fantasy and lore for what it really is.
The person that dubbed this whole charade "the rat race".

Because what are we?
Nothing more than a slightly sophisticated bunch of vermon
flowing through a predestined obstacle course
being spit out to an option-less ending

before being gathered up and flushed back in to the cages...

...until the next maze is constructed.

Just a bunch of bellies fighting for that cheddar.

Find hope in that. Fulfill your petty desire in that.
Strive for and unlock your potential in that stupid fucking race.

The peasants are the visionaries that have this whole shebang figured out.