The sepulchral arc.
Fertile land did I till…
Yet, starve do I still…
Perhaps my youth deemed it epiphany. Those were the moments when the world seemed my oyster — only Time would decide when the inevitable was up for the taking. History has been filled with the tales of miracles, of untold suffering being the steppingstone to those deemed impossible. After all, who doesn’t seek poetic justice, that semblance of order which regards us based on our intentions, not circumstances? It was Caesar’s saying that great men bend circumstances to their will, yet maybe the great man himself was rather fortunate to have had allies like Pompey who were eventually eliminated based on the circumstance of civil war. Yet, this isn’t about Caesar. This is about me and my dreams, ambitions which mingled with hubris and the modest wish to have a sense of direction turning into a sepulchral arc.
At the cusp of adulthood, merit takes center stage in our psyche and the ones who have it in modest amounts perceive themselves as ones taking center stage in whatever they do. As a matter of circumstance, I happened to be one of them and there was this initial vitality that sparked the enthused mind to learn everything my senses allow me from the world. My fledgling mind began to unfurl its wings to the secularity of knowledge and before long, those very wings lifted me off the ground of reality.
Hopes are meant to be baseless, for our circumstances at present go contrary to what we visualize in future. Yet, why must we hope? Why do I still believe I will receive the fruits of my labor. Have I waded so far into this river of delusion that returning is as tedious as moving forwards?
“But I am not to be denied.” I tell myself as I stare out into the calm night. That aggression is a nostalgia that’s vividly etched as the scar of yesterday and tomorrow but for today, for now, I let out a heavy sigh. It’s been a hard time, and I am not naive enough to hope like prayers to the Almighty. Yes, I know the road uphill is taxing and maybe, I may never make it through. But what if I do? What if I am finally able to reach the hill and stare down the climb I toiled through?
My eyes will squint to see those tiny dots below, who chose to lead their halcyon days with all modesty. Yet, I fear my dreams are testament to my vanity under the garb of idealism bordering on quixotism. Yet, those who are vain are indolent in their pursuit, for hubris leads them to beckon their Fate instead of being beckoned by it. Reality is never a stroke of the quill but indelible is its mark more than any ink. Yet, my wisdom I lack faith upon, my ideals I fear to be compromised. It was modesty which strove me to leave the comforts of the commonplace — to accept with a heavy heart all that the unknown flung upon me. Yet, why do I fear I shall not feel gratitude if Fate grants me the reward for all these toils?
Modesty led me in every peril. Gratitude in every success. The road ahead lies replete with challenges greater than what I can bear. Hubris shall never consume my mind. The road is Life, and it shall always be mightier than my laurels. Great however much I become, I shall always respect my circumstances.
I am not alone. In my perils lie the very knowledge my fledgling mind had learned to love.
Thanks to my editor — Ravyne Hawke
Prompt: Moody Monday — Write about a moment when your ambition made you feel isolated. Was it worth it?
