Synthetic or Natural

Synthetic or Natural, the first word in the sentence is opened without consequence, the following with more and more disagreement. With each new phrase a new path splits, with each possible choice of word fate is described. With punctuation and confusion we can hope to begin to understand our choices. Laying print block letters denies any and all conflict, small black reminders of anonymity. Each one like a drumbeat, a repetition of pure inclined predictability. With each new page I spit my stereotype, with each blow at the walls of identity, they are reinforced.

Synthetic or natural I lay my words as offerings and demands, together my arrogance unveiled. Like a naked child my ego is placed obliviously in front of the world. With memories and experiences alike it grows and hardens. The child matures and the tears wash from his eyes, fire demands progress, fists clenched – success is mandatory. Beyond the maturation the child learns to cope with punishment and reward. With time and instinct he is thrown into the void of achievement. He becomes one with self, a rebirth in the cavernous reality of happiness.
 
Synthetic or natural I embody my happiness. I enjoy and this is all. Together with others yet separate and self-important my thoughts linger on bright lights and universal phenomenon. My face sours to the taste of my own decisions. But beyond the walls lies the spark in that child’s eyes. A spark fueled with symbols and colors to become the conclusion of infancy.
 
Synthetic or natural I have concluded my decisions and lay them on a thin wire, blood thick with the same confusion. As the life of my writing continues -an acronym for my own child- so does the same embarrassing failure. Forever I will be guilty with the plague of this drumbeat. My words will no longer pound one after another, my decisions will no longer choose rebirth over death. With my conclusions come my promises, forever yours to help me break.