A Gifted Child?
We were born gifted children, swimming with the infernal voluptuouness of our minds - providing employment at high wages to special education administrators,
bringing forth the fondest pork-barrelling of our policticians, and providing our parents with the social weapons with which to transgress the fealty of economically worthier neighbors.
We were gifted children, captives of an ardent tutelage, hewing to a higher standard of academic excellence, enriched, broadened, and more deeply steeped within the whole human experience;
art, thought, and anticipation -- more than any ORDINARY youngsters.
We were gifted children, compressed and screaming within our skins, biting our nails, shaking and screaming, possessed of adrenal glands steaming with surpressed rage and fear,
unloved and unlovable like pink monkeys thrashing through a suffocating cage replete with predators and our vindictive peers merrily celibrating within their certifiably "normal" sluggish, unfilled
and unused mentalities...
We were gifted children, and those of us who survived unshattered were brought forth so that "THEY" got what "THEY" wanted.
More's the pity then that, "THEY" never had any use for what "THEY" got.
Prince Rupert's Tears are molten drops of glass plunged into ice water, there to have their surface cooled and solidified while the still molten and expanded interiors slowly attempt to contract
within the immovable skin, generating internal compressive tensions of thousands of pounds per inch...
Prince Rupert's Tears will withstand the most violent hammer blows unscathed but will explode into dust if they are scratched or their thin, wispy tails are snapped.
So it is with our tears.
Our childhoods were squandered. We fearlessly and fearfully strode forth to be pounded and folded,
heated and quenched, warped and forged into sleek glistening superior weapons of expectations and of mind.
We were to endure the reminder of our lives as being beaten into these plowshares.
Tell me please, when a soldier is trying to read the LCD panel on his weapon is suddenly brained by a native carrying a club,
WHO has the superior ordinance? The information society so cannily crafted by those whose credentials reside on their walls
rather than motile on the shop floor being cut off at the knees by societies whose members can design and craft a perfect gear - and make a hundred million of them on time, on cost, and to spec!
America's best and brightest have the lowest reproductive rate (so I've been told.)
It is an interesting way, a rather gifted way, in which to vote "NO".