It is not peculiar to be witty, except that some deem it so not to be. It appears amoral to differ where acclaimed transcendence qualifies the usurpation of grace, given consensus that neither fate nor grace reveals the bearer it cloaks.
Such portrayal is alien to most some would vouch unmindful it seems to queries on the source of the power so masterly it seems professes wit. What a rival view would hail though interns in the act, a tendency to acquiesce to the very reason an immutable fails to impress the sublime it claims.
Schadenfreude implodes in tandem chivalry, an exposé of sorts the disarray incumbent belies. Not even the exalted escapes the chicanery of decadence visited on the faithful in essence powerless to ward off the assaults the declared lowly perpetrates. This time, a proclivity for witty late-night telecasts must render needy souls rudderless.
This is not to begrudge comics at brain-storming sessions in agencies the public funds. Nor need we bother with feeble official regrets over wit gone awry. After all wit is it, the opium to match the ruthless incursions into void of restiveness inherent in perpetual strife. Yet, an eternal game of life seems set to wrestle alone.
There appears nothing wrong to poke shots even at the self, the veritable vision of the sublime to seek to soothe a wicked angst. The purveyors of the game then become supreme, intuitively it seems, eliminating the angst, substituted with the temporariness of a high.
The excuse to assault others is thus sealed, even ballyhooed as altruistic enabling the universal realization of the healing power of wit, directed at self or others, regardless. Remorse then is antithetical, to mention infractions even worse, the lexicon debonair, its wisdom, acclaimed. In short, wit reigns supreme. But does it?
With an intensity that may make bacchanal antics puerile, a devotion of zealot heights, and history steeped in atavism, to demonize the perceived spiritual uplifting of wit would on cursory examination, seem to rendezvous with the inane. It is just too silly not to laugh, sacrilegious to contest the purgation of nature.
Surely, some moan from nature, others from nurture, still others from the miscellany both assign, the panacea ignored fetid to many. Others though would cringe to consider wit the crucial link in an epigenetic continuum, the idea of a universal cure relic of a meta-narrative defunct.
Even when remedial wit may not be pervasively so the target of scum often not amused, and with legal tango potentially melancholic, its ramifications are legion. As with its presumed virtue that infuses penance to sluice languor, that its incandescence may impel the naive to seek redress taints its might to mesmerize.
So then, Jones is the victim. Not even his claim to stardom helps. To be annulled by the very paternalism that sires proclaimed creativity it seems condemns his ilk to canonical oblivion. The pantheon irate it appears from the marvel of its presence exhumed the revelation of its sanctity minute relative to the veneer of salvation it presents.
Much as it is improbable to establish another regime of conviction in the universal mind, its struggle for a slice of the bounty would continue. A quintessential egregiousness embedded in all would make Jones a villain victim. That, it seems would suffice.
Certain in the hegemony of its art to gain twilight souls, wit would remain convinced of that to redeem its image, acquiescence inevitable past a dreamland sojourn in tired souls. It is uncertain though how long this trance would last, as not only are tired souls not necessarily dense, but other means to transcendence may appear that do not mock or blot.
To shake off its banner of shame, wit would need to erase its cornucopia of guile, he says, conceding his duality at last. The creation of an insatiable lust, or the pinnacle of confusion, or of charity mislaid, Jones’ fate straddles nothingness by acclamation. Thus, the high even if short-lived is a high some say, others, less charitable, insisting on a longer-term angle.
With the pervasiveness of angst with prospects for resolution as evasive as the immanence of the wit aimed at its placation, the costs of perpetual misery the probable endpoint of incremental confounding of a distressing conundrum some would ascribe to wit, soon assumes prominence.
Indeed, the potential of wit in its various hues including bullying to have tragic results is instructive, for the individual, the family, and society, eroding the fabric of faith in the being in a world the universal soul languishes in psychic pain.
Perhaps wit the victim has a stake in the pain, hence may be part of easing it by being a partner not opium. An innocent youth needs not hang just so another has a good laugh. Wit does not have to compromise the faith of others or ridicule their being. It does not need to relish the misfortune of others or create one for them.
Wit needs not be fatalistic but humanistic. Its humanism predicates on Jones being one of us, on board our eternal celestial train. It is thus able to cheer us to harness the vicissitudes that threaten to derail us into formidable wellsprings of strength. It should partner with us to identify attributes inherent in us we nonetheless lack in routing our destiny aright.
Come on, wit. You can do it, just as we can. Jones is back on stage, great. He seems ready to make the move into the souls eager to welcome him into the void within to fill it with hope, perpetual angst, displaced. It appears now is the time for change, and it is his destiny to ensure it happens.
So we trudge on in the path we trail. With wit on our side, on our journey we would all prevail. It is often our friend even in dismay, only now it shuns disgrace and works with us to make our gain, along the path to make us great.
