The men of automatic genius

I reach out into the vast history of the words I admire and I am met with familiar faces carried through time. Mostly men of automatic genius, awarded to them by a destined birth. A fortune granted at their first breath. The unending admiration of the world before them, only waiting to be seized by effortless labour.

I sit here now wondering where are the times that they were a changing? The foals of mighty, grow sturdy every passing day. Even the roosters look majestic as they caw. Groomed to perfection for an untrained eye, off to the stables, the races have begun. The ballots are fixed. The results are out. The mighty have won again. There was no doubt.

What was the curse that befell the womb carrying me? Was I doomed to live in the shadows of great men? Am I supposed to disappear from conscience or erase myself from being? Who was the woman who birthed me, what was her name? If she brought a life not worth remembering, does she exist?

Here I am, my body is weak and my mind can not stop wandering. What does an injured prey, with a scattered mind survive? Who admires an orphan left out to fend for itself? Who digs the graves of the unworthy?

I mastered this language, I finessed these words. I learnt all I could, just to tell you how I feel. Only to find out my words have no meaning, they’ve been written before. By a man with brilliant leanings.


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