Descent

The world I knew was devoid of Colours and the men I knew were devoid of substance
How could they not see how they played into the hands of Men, how could no one see how bland it all was, or were they promised things I was yet to understand.
Was there something more to the bleak existence they all seemed to so fervently cling to, could there be something even I was blind to?
In a world where results mattered to everyone I held nothing anyone could be appreciative of and yet, yet somehow I knew I held more than most were accustomed to holding.
Consciousness, the first act.
The sheep around me would come to a realization they were more than cogs in the system, or at least that’s what they were meant to be.
The questions began to roll in as time went by
Who were they supposed to be, In the grand scheme of things did they really matter, or were they cursed to seek the same mundane goals that seemed to satisfy those who came before them, would those same goals satisfy those who would come after?
Maybe we were all puppets for the satisfaction of a puppeteer we couldn’t seem to understand, or maybe it was one we should be unable to, in anyway.
I cannot even remember when the scales fell off my eyes or if there were any at all
I had answers to questions I didn’t even know I could ask.
If knowledge was such a curse for everyone else how come they sought it so vehemently, how come no one wanted to confess how boring it was once you eventually had it.
No one told me that with more questions came less answers, I watched better men that I walk into situations they couldn’t escape in the search of something greater, in search of a pad already filled with colours, one they just had to make sense of with brushes cut by the inevitability of the finite.
Their brushes worked and worked and in sparks of inspiration produced certain moments of genius, but before that
It was all noise
So it begat the question, why?
I was different, I knew inevitably my actions would shake the foundation of the very world I was born in
I would be the gun that never ran out of bullets, I was a becoming
A question unlike the world had ever seen, one it would never hold an answer to.
I found a fire in the eyes of men and I understood their thirst for immortality through their actions.
They ascribed to be remembered through pages of history, they wanted to be more than a simple letter in a book with endless pages.
I was the only one who desired to be the author of my own book.
I was the only one who fed my desire to be unlike all, I was the only one who fed the desire to live true to what I felt, I was my own creator
I was my own god.
Yet these answers begat more questions, for the first time in a long time I had questions I couldn’t answer
There’s a magic to the madness of men, a certain burst of colour they can’t contain, even as their stars burn and fizzle out into the great nothingness
I see it all now and I wonder how I failed to see it before
I see now all the colours the world holds, colours only I could bring to life