Some distorted, spiritually-driven consciousness has clouded the minds of the army of marching teens and twenty-somethings. Rewarded with space and lost in time the clouded march smells like spirits and smoke. Their eyes look past the goal. The goal is unattainable, their true driving force is the expansive fields and forests that make the cities we live in (so bustling and crowded) seem like wastelands of empty verse.
No single person has been so motivated to see the world for what it's not. No group of eager learners so desperately avoid learning what the generations before them know from years of rote memorization. Their science, our science, is to discover the undiscoverable, conceivably- to do the impossible without ever truly making it possible.
So with a history of psychedelic irrationality and knee-jerk epiphany, the hordes of tripping teenagers hold their pipe bags tightly enough to ignore the social injustice that we are so sure we could cure with a few grams of grass and a shot of whiskey.
Can we march on the capitol steps for hallucinations' sake?
Is it fathomable to take our familiarity with the unusual and use it toward a tangible good?
Yes, absolutely yes.
The unusual is not only healthy, it absolutely necessary. The proselytizing of the greatest generation, the moral bankruptcy of the baby booming generation (in the sense that it is perfectly moral to say one thing and act on another) has left us with no other options than to ignore responsibility and reality in lieu of the most righteous nirvana, the more responsible apathy: creativity and the high.
No chemical can reproduce our passion for expansion. The learning we yearn for is a haze of metaphysical theories. Our yearning is born as the inquisitive sensitivity for all beliefs other than the one that rules in this day: the worship of the mighty dollar.
It is our right to see history as a bad omen for the future. Where will the high go? Has a resurgence of free-love manifested only sleaze and empty consciousness? No one man, not one community, not one species can determine the future in a sense of specific events. Fueling even more the feeling that we, malleable wisps of purplish smoke in a cloudless and buildingless skyline of opportunity, can make ourselves by the morals and mores that we see necessary for a society in which the individual can witness his resurrection only to become earthly with the next conversation or cigarette or dimebag. We have relaxed ourselves into a new planar reality, one that promises to answer the questions that none have answered before without regards to whether or not the answer can exist in the cold modern reality (with its confining boundaries that we know the human mind is more than capable of escaping).