Surface Tension
by Fiend Ludwig
It is a pond and I live on the surface tension.
I suspect that the same is true, too,
For the New Priests:
The blogger-kings and scripter-czars,
The kulaks and uber-griefers and Linden-spawn.
Drilling through the boundary at will,
Extracting enrichment and inspiration.
Submerging only if pressed,
While the uninitiated drown amongst the choke of weeds.
It has not always been like this.
I was once tethered to the heady barometer of exploration,
For it was a place that I could learn.
A place that I could encompass.
The elusive edge of the world was tangible.
A destination. A reason.
Lost.
In its place multiplicitous dull facets.
Unimaginative yearning.
Tedious banality.
It is never truly gone, though.
The edge.
Soon,
Or perhaps a long time from now,
One of those drownlings will slip the weeds and pierce the skin.
And a wave will form.
And the surface tension will splinter.
And I will sink into the waters,
Refreshed.
[Author's note: When I became a resident of Second Life, one year ago today, there were 165,000 others just like me. Today, there are over 4.8 million. Rise drownlings, rise!]
Comments