Spontaneity

Perhaps a bleak of a worldview, but there’s this image of how spontaneity often silos and it’s so morbid.

It’s like an animated painting fed the shredder. Peering in so our supposed hero dragging another along toward anywhere, anywhere at all. Whether a diner or a loaded gun for a cowboy imitation. Away from the disappearing border.

Fill the scene with crying, laughter or wonder, but there’s something terribly uncomfortable roaring at the edges, inching closer, submerging in flint, submerging into dust.

What use is this spontaneity if it doesn’t push against the inevitable? Waiting for the ferris wheel to dock and while the crowd exits for the sunset pending, one only knows this is our strange squiggly line toward the same ending.

You could plea a Groundhog Day reflection — where, perhaps, of our day to day, however inevitable, we ought to live fully.

But that’s the thing: Groundhog Day only ended when the character determined to fix the end of everyone in that town. The script was altered.

We can have a water-tie with a balloon animal but if it means you’re entering the same rundown apartment this evening and every evening after, who knows, how much do you value a smile?

This is the trouble with spontaneity, albeit a stretch. This struggle to shake off that association: change in a most superficial manner.

If we’re reaching out of our monotonous existence, well, let’s hope it’d be with something a little more significant.

Let’s not be spontaneous; let’s bend fate.