“Examine but to the extent of the power you hold in this world,”

These were the words he could hear his friend’s father say, hours after he’d left his house. He couldn’t help but feel as if he was going in circles.

If ignorance wasn’t bliss, or even brushed past contentment, and self-examination was a necessity, but only to the point you kept your life as your own, what was one to do? There’s a certain limit placed on how much you can freely express in society until they close in on you.

One of the greatest risks to take is pushing your luck on how much you can get away with questioning a flawed system; one day you are deliberately wondering out loud, and the next, your head is off your shoulders.

How does one question, but not out loud? Isn’t that how we descend into whatever is the new definition of madness?

He pondered on this for a great while and then began to list people he could freely talk to.

Parents; a massive no. Their inability to understand his situation, his ideologies and the concept of practicing what you preach would never go past the solid wall of APPEARANCES. The frustration of not having the people who raised you would join the pent-up emotions that had led to him speak up in the first place, bringing him back to square one.

Friends; not a lot in the first place, and he’d drive them away by questioning the purpose and meaningfulness of all there was. Hell, he had already driven plenty away, with barely a handful left, who if his self-doubt amounted to anything at all, would soon pack up and depart from Cuckoo-land airport and back to CSN airport also known as the conformity to social norms airport. It was mostly alright; if they couldn’t deal with him addressing the issues that almost twerked naked in front of them, it was their prerogative.

The keyboard; until the establishment came for him and threw him in a cell, not that they’d bother to go to such lengths because they’d just off him rather than waste any funds on imprisonment on extortion, since dead men really can’t tell tales, contrary to the immortality of poetry or what that one British poet or the other went on about.

Maybe it was more than one poet, but how do we trust their words?

Strangers; you never knew who could instigate a riot against you. Or who would turn out to be an employer, a lover, a partner, a wingman?

The answer he found led him to acknowledge exactly how trapped he was, how trapped we all are. He didn’t like it, but it was the truth, an inevitable, unchangeable, and unavoidable truth that left him more miserable than any other encounter he had. Funny, how he should condemn himself to a bitter and lonely existence, but what could he possibly do?

We are all doomed to suffer in silence.

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