Lament of adulthood

People are much the same wherever you are. Once you pass high school, all the wonderful uniqueness of youth dissipates into oblivion leaving only the tell-tale legacies of jealousy and partisanism of adulthood. Even Plato’s utopian republic was not free of the petty squabblings of adulthood when it came to pure matters of taste – his taste in literature – he devalued an entire genre. Had his society come to pass, he might have denied us Keats and Browning, Dickenson and a myriad of fledgling Poe’s who give us much in the way of shaped perceptions and nudged societal expectations. No adult is as wise as a child, as we well know but refuse to understand. It is the child’s ability to question and wonder that we lack. Instead, as we grow older we long for the comfort of an absolute and hide our fears in the cacophony of shouted dogma, willing to fight anyone to the death rather than take a second look at ourselves. It is heresy, we say, to question God’s Will in this situation. Is it truly His voice we listen for? Or isn’t it true that many times we listen to the easiest voice to hear, which is our will (which bears little resemblance to His, most often).
Truth is never hard to find, it is only hard to look for. It is unbelievably difficult to take one’s eyes off of what we choose to see in order to focus on something we will not to recognize. This is the curse of choice. Society can never rest in its search for the truth because it does not choose to find it. Far from the utopia we dream of and engineer our society toward, the truth is garbled and confusing, like the mumbled ramblings of a very old, very sad man. The truth is made of memories too distant to remember, written down by someone who only wishes to forget.