Yes, I’m daunting enough to have you as my definition of “more”. You wonder how highly I deem you perhaps; possibly to as great an extent as how delusional I too may be… I’m simple to content, for my contentment is also subjective, like everything else.
Now there’s come a certain change, and I observe it with quiet attention, the creation we’re setting up and we’re always dissimulated about it — low profile love, or no-love… the names we name it have lost their stridency by now. And what’s there to do about that?
It’s like I forfeited it years ago, my contentment, so that I’ve something to hope for, a hope barely grandier than maybe the shallowest whim of those more lively with their meta-ambitions. I have no such ambitions because maybe I’m against proving myself in those modern ways. I’m simple to content: not as in being easily content, but in being content with those quite simpler things.
And simplicity is not the most linear thing to admire! Hence few around me have I seen searching it. They all want it riskless, as promised and deserved, they want what they’ve been massively educated to desire. It’s like people make efforts and worry so hard since so young for entitlement only.
So much thought about life now, but not with intent to understand it. Success is the new sport, also the one sport which demands of us less sportsmanship, and that’s where the mistakes inherent to this race all lie awaiting us, in the end. We’ll learn then, later than sooner but there might still be a fix for it, for those who’re finally awaken and able to see the entrance to the rabbit hole.
I’m still crude in a few ways and I’m ever cruder the contenter I aim to become. This might be the spirit of a mad one, a mad knight or something, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who gets me.
Why do you think you see hardly a handful scattered on this land these days? They’re pretty much gone… no knights, and an ever decreasing hearty madness. They’ve been dying of over-sophistication, over-focus, and over-wasted they end up, I’m disappointed to say.
A knight, he doesn’t grow any nicer when life’s sweeter to him, nor angrier when he faces betrayal — mad he is for owning life in such manner. He also knows no end to a belief, for if he could accept an end, then any type of ending would suffice: no cause to strive to be loyal to, no value to his will, no love to any of his passions.
A clueless knight, like a graceless princess, both worthless, both so common. Both inapt to be casted for any fairy tale. But well, fairy tales don’t exist anymore neither will they ever again.
The only thing fitting for a tale is perhaps my hope that tales could one day be brought back to life. Ahh! What did I tell you!? I’m pretty bonkers up here… why do you even care to read any of this…? Beware! Or else you might go just as mad too.