wisefool

I am the heir to collective preconceptions. Having a head full of secondhand half-truths, I spit out opinions like broken steel teeth but they come out weightless, wisping away like a repugnant hot vapor that rises from the last breath of a dying man.

Taking a 4 am cold-water tongue bath. The ingestion and absorption of bless'ed purity to flush away the residue of the devil's nectar coating my liver and kidneys. Speaking of tongues, I sit and wonder what sloppy combination of syllables my mouth muscle flexed out last night. A muscle that I gave the keys to; I said ,here son, here are the keys, you've learnt how to drive on your own, so go out and go wild. Lock up the house when you're done. My superego had loosened his tie and turned in for the night, had gone to hide himself away from the heavy world; tired and ran down, beaten and bruised from constantly trying to wrestle the world into submission.
Maybe, it is necessary. Let's give the old guy a break every once in a while, a little mental vacation. Let him soak in a warm bath, a warm bath of whisky; let the potions seep in and dilute his desires for control. If only for this one night, let's help him loosen his invisible noose that is slowly choking him out, slowly fading his world to grey. Let's let the kids go out; unleash them, let them loose on the world around them, the victims of their choosing, gushing forth their ill-formed convictions, throwing their javelin spears of thought and spiking people to the wall. Poking people with sticks, poking people in their mushy little hearts and their big squishy brains, spitting on them when they blabber about with their un-orthodox opinions and their uncooked views. They've made the dough, and I can respect the effort they are putting forth, but the bread has yet to rise, the cookies have yet to taste right. They stomp around gobbling up their raw cookies of thought, leaving crumbs every where for the others to clean up. Saying, "Hey!, here's this cookie recipe I've been working on, HERE!, eat my cookie, It's really tasty!" Doling out the embryonic stages of their delectable thoughts, dripping with salmonella, repulsing societal members near and far.
Ole' superego watched, in his patriarchal way, from the remote comforts of home; scotch on the rocks, sitting by the crackling fire with his pipe nestled between his lips, quietly perusing his tomes of Jung and Nietzsche, dreaming up fantasies inspired by ole' Clive B. Patiently waiting for the kids to get in from their night of debauchery, silently knowing that they need these nights of failure to come back home and meticulously edit their recipes.

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Say hello to my frontal lobe.