Here's to the Senioritis

And the death of all that is inspiration.

Somebody shot the muse with an arrow and she fell from cloud nine onto the mill press of mediocrity.

They steamrolled her into a million textbooks and they charge $80 a copy, not including tax.

People then read these books and think how drab the language has become, and they deface her dessicated corpse with highlighters and pencil. Sometimes doodling in the corners, memorials as if once, she was alive.

Here's to the blank pages that don't write their own stories anymore. The flowery words and deep descriptions have been trimmed and replaced with clipped lawns and practical impracticalities.

Here's to the death of fancy, and fanciful tales. Their children were news that aspired to whimsy but ended up in the morgue of tabloid dissection.

Here's to the death of music, and it's many, many reincarnations. The flash in the pan produced smoke, which when inhaled, creates a lifetime of great lyrics.

These great lyrics are then repeated. And repeated. And repeated. Everytime, some new tune is applied, some new sound. And each claims the old for their own, and everytime, the shine of the once-great song grows a bit duller until there is nothing left but boring words and a thousand culprits with glitter on their fingers.

Here's to the Senioritis. The disease that plagues the learning process, when there's nothing left to learn. The choker that's left on after the training is done, and the redundancy that comes from things made redundant, and to the repitition that is teaching us and killing us.

We will be but intelligent corpses.