On a day when I owe no man a debt, consider no man my mentor, and indeed think of no man as my better, I feel I have achieved a unique place on the Universe. Or more accurately, been given a unique place in the Universe. No one really helped me get here, no one is particularly pleased that I am here, and it serves no special purpose that I am here.
These are just days in hand. Free shots. Maybe they'll be paid for with hard judgements and reproach at a future time and setting, but not this day.
I wrote an awful poem contemplating why I have been the depository of such goodwill from the gods while others like me have been plagued with the curse of genius.
Why I'm Glad I'm Not David Foster Wallace
Rope
That's the poem. It's damnable, isn't it? But what else is there in life but appreciating what you are and the role you've been given to play? I feel I have the same clinical diagnosis as he did, but I just would never want to declare this life null and void. It's too damn groovy and full. Full of everything. It's all here. And now this poem is here.
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Outsider Poetry, web comics, zombie movie reviews, artwork, and commentary on politics, fantasy football, and modern culture by Outsider poet Thomas L. Vaultonburg.
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