By Dr. Seth John Batiste
Immaturity raises her brow and stays the same, not equally matched. A click here. A click there.
Immaturity has raised not only her brow, but she has raised self. She is in quite the stupor and proud, not knowing what awaits, what lies on the other side of that canyon, those mountains. She has sorely missed her mark, finding only the mark of selfishness and the desire to be liked by the masses.
Cluelessness is a true companion for this deplorable state. No one worries now about the present, not even the glamorous present. Words are too high or too low, missing the intended target. Words are mere words without evidence to back them.
Immaturity has not progressed much from month to month, not even knowing the help that is her fingertips…help that is fading away in heartbroken sorrow, waiting patiently for the words to catch up, but understanding that is mutual to crash in like a tsunami. Wisdom only sleeps. Experience weeps.
Next month is used up as action is needed now. Eat a little. One is commanded to eat.
Sadly, starvation is what is abundant as the stranglehold of a relationship hangs in the balance of wasted youth. Starvation is rampant in the dimly lit room where a star could be born but slowly fades away only to find out later how brilliant the shine that could have been was only once was.
Dimly lit is that room that looks so glamorous, that bring temporary happy this and that. Glimmers fade to dust. The playbook is played.
Horrid distance is an obstacle that won’t pay attention to evolution. A blurry rainbow leads the way. No one dares to explore that day, the day where the skies did grey and tornadic this and that fell from the skies for what seemed eternity to pave a path that could not be paved without the owner.
And of the playbook of plays, immaturity, won that day, failing even the ant and her ways. Immaturity only laughed and mocked advice, sticking her nose up at love in order to sow would will soon fall apart. Immaturity, as irony would have it, wants to see, but is willfully blind and absent to what matters. Immaturity has learned to state a dream without applicably progress or vision…and where there is no vision, people perish.
Mature communication is forbidden and doesn’t give a fuck. Maturity won’t give a fuck for at least two more years, when some crisis has fowled the way and the looking glass has darkened the day. Maturity comes far too late for the immature soul that lives for the moment, for self, yet grabbing for the icing on this cake hither and yon. What rhymes with yon? Dare I say stubbornness supreme?
Here is wisdom from the one who has birthed the experience early in life, yet lacks still: Floods are not planned, and that somewhere at the end of that rainbow is void of the gold being sought. Steer clear from conflict and conflict will be the archest of enemies.
Friendships are fraud in a world where fake is accepted and real is shunned. Sometimes, real think it is, burning in a furnace only to leave behind remnants of barely discernable plastic. The sea engulfs this plastic and other drink the refined liquid, repeating the cycle.
Immaturity is poor, planning to plan but never planning. Complexity surrounds with gobs of it seeping in but gobs of proteined substance wedged out. “I’m not ready.” Said Immaturity as the bell tolled. “I’m not ready.” The music was so melodious. Then, there was silence.