(no subject)
I have a difficult time distinguishing paranoia from sensibility. This has a lot to do with why I can't stand being bored.
I've come to hate my understanding of the world as everything being sewn into a massive, communal existence. Every traffic light, every human emotion, every empty space in the realm of human vision floating above where optic nerves meet eyeballs are threads in a giant tapestry of materialism, and I can see the inclination of a Buddhist to blink himself out of the world in a meticulous blend of compassion, awareness, and extinguished reverberation, like a wave crashing not against the shore, but off a cliff. I always feel witness to this gigantic organic world around me, and not participating in it is as good as being dead, or worse, left behind. If I'm not engaged in some activity, no matter if it's as menial as brewing tea or listening to a woman reassure her waitress that her food is, in fact, delicious, I can feel the world revolving underneath my feet without me, spinning me further and further away from the present, which unnerves me to no end. Curiously, this sensation is numbed to the point of meditation if I'm in a car, presumably because I'm not only engaged in an activity, but actively moving against the surface of the earth, and in effect making up for lost time. This satisfactorily explains why I think best in a moving vehicle, because thoughts are always incidentally budgeted for if I happen to be travelling very, very fast.
So it's sensible to me to be paranoid as a general rule of thumb, because to me life is in a constant, uncalculated, impartial process of abandoning me, and it's all I can do to insinuate myself between these fibers of existence and hide amongst them until I am taken for dead by that which consumes and seduces men into inexistence, red herrings such as vanity, bitterness, and worst above all else, boredom and its insidious sister, contentment. Boredom is synonymous with immobility, which is, for all practical purposes, rotting. Contentment, of course, is socially condoned boredom. Regardless, the idea that I can blip out of existence like a beep on a sonogram or a radio station fading away between folds of distance is, clearly, horrifying, and the plausibility that the world as an entity is actively trying to buck me off of its terrarian shoulders, and that no one can see this the way I see this, troubles me.
I speed home under blinking yellow lights as a prayer to God not to forget me, I don't see immediate results in areas of my personal life and decide which organs are to be donated to which organizations; I am routinely commended for being able to sleep so soundly on airplanes.
I will not understand if you do not understand.
I've come to hate my understanding of the world as everything being sewn into a massive, communal existence. Every traffic light, every human emotion, every empty space in the realm of human vision floating above where optic nerves meet eyeballs are threads in a giant tapestry of materialism, and I can see the inclination of a Buddhist to blink himself out of the world in a meticulous blend of compassion, awareness, and extinguished reverberation, like a wave crashing not against the shore, but off a cliff. I always feel witness to this gigantic organic world around me, and not participating in it is as good as being dead, or worse, left behind. If I'm not engaged in some activity, no matter if it's as menial as brewing tea or listening to a woman reassure her waitress that her food is, in fact, delicious, I can feel the world revolving underneath my feet without me, spinning me further and further away from the present, which unnerves me to no end. Curiously, this sensation is numbed to the point of meditation if I'm in a car, presumably because I'm not only engaged in an activity, but actively moving against the surface of the earth, and in effect making up for lost time. This satisfactorily explains why I think best in a moving vehicle, because thoughts are always incidentally budgeted for if I happen to be travelling very, very fast.
So it's sensible to me to be paranoid as a general rule of thumb, because to me life is in a constant, uncalculated, impartial process of abandoning me, and it's all I can do to insinuate myself between these fibers of existence and hide amongst them until I am taken for dead by that which consumes and seduces men into inexistence, red herrings such as vanity, bitterness, and worst above all else, boredom and its insidious sister, contentment. Boredom is synonymous with immobility, which is, for all practical purposes, rotting. Contentment, of course, is socially condoned boredom. Regardless, the idea that I can blip out of existence like a beep on a sonogram or a radio station fading away between folds of distance is, clearly, horrifying, and the plausibility that the world as an entity is actively trying to buck me off of its terrarian shoulders, and that no one can see this the way I see this, troubles me.
I speed home under blinking yellow lights as a prayer to God not to forget me, I don't see immediate results in areas of my personal life and decide which organs are to be donated to which organizations; I am routinely commended for being able to sleep so soundly on airplanes.
I will not understand if you do not understand.