I hate this sound-
I am so confused and a little apathetically consumed with how and why to live. If there is a way beyond basic virtues like simplicity and a lack of material attachment.
Whether there is inherent meaning and purpose in life or if it is all just a chattering rattle bag of fisherman's net- a sometimes amusing, occasionally tender and often tragic shit show. As the last few months, years, decades and eternities have shown, the universe's givings offer little justice. And justice seems more a carrot to dangle in front of a donkey than an edible pursuit, and the same is true of structure, planning and routine, the more we rely on the final products of all of these virtues the more catastrophic and devastating their inevitable lack of compliance.
And if that's the case, then what is the point of endless struggles for freedom and equity? There are none.
And even if there were, the accomplishments would seem like the work of fruit flies in the face of elephantine chaos. Though this seems to be life's general scale. Joy is largely outweighed by suffering.
And if one can't find simple pleasure in the most minute, fleeting and insignificant of details or blind and bright eyed passion and ambition, life quickly becomes a dead, grey, empty parking lot.
It seems only in these tiny passings like the suggestions of an unfamiliar voice crawling around in the back of my ear without a physical form instantaneously attached, or the strange breaking apart and isolating of the senses and the reality that I am a solitary mobil plant zooming around on my bike in the rain and the light showers that peruse me resemble the arbitrary patterns of where sprinkler droplets fall. . is there proof that truth exists, and even that is a bit of a smirk.
But other than that, matters of girth like purpose, love, mortality, dualism, sex and death are all an unintelligible babble, comparable to the meaningless stretch of these words.
And as far as the great divide between devotion to the human cause and the exploration of self. I regret to accept that I am an uncontrollable hedonist who is much more concerned with diving head first into the cool, plummeting depths of my own experience than I am with loosening the tightened and burned muscles in the hearts of others. Which is not to say that I don't make my small contributions in teaching children and supporting those who devote the ample parts of their existence to justice, or reserving my contribution to a few miserable industries, but it is not my tattooed creed.
Though there was a time when I cared desperately about other people and I breathe and seek longingly after that person but she is not even the fading memory of a muggy dream that was definitely mine. She is like an unfamiliar stranger I secretly admire. I wonder if we ever even shared the same oxygen or if at some point I was jaded and reborn through the coarse and jagged ass hole of doubt.
Probably the latter. . .
Whether there is inherent meaning and purpose in life or if it is all just a chattering rattle bag of fisherman's net- a sometimes amusing, occasionally tender and often tragic shit show. As the last few months, years, decades and eternities have shown, the universe's givings offer little justice. And justice seems more a carrot to dangle in front of a donkey than an edible pursuit, and the same is true of structure, planning and routine, the more we rely on the final products of all of these virtues the more catastrophic and devastating their inevitable lack of compliance.
And if that's the case, then what is the point of endless struggles for freedom and equity? There are none.
And even if there were, the accomplishments would seem like the work of fruit flies in the face of elephantine chaos. Though this seems to be life's general scale. Joy is largely outweighed by suffering.
And if one can't find simple pleasure in the most minute, fleeting and insignificant of details or blind and bright eyed passion and ambition, life quickly becomes a dead, grey, empty parking lot.
It seems only in these tiny passings like the suggestions of an unfamiliar voice crawling around in the back of my ear without a physical form instantaneously attached, or the strange breaking apart and isolating of the senses and the reality that I am a solitary mobil plant zooming around on my bike in the rain and the light showers that peruse me resemble the arbitrary patterns of where sprinkler droplets fall. . is there proof that truth exists, and even that is a bit of a smirk.
But other than that, matters of girth like purpose, love, mortality, dualism, sex and death are all an unintelligible babble, comparable to the meaningless stretch of these words.
And as far as the great divide between devotion to the human cause and the exploration of self. I regret to accept that I am an uncontrollable hedonist who is much more concerned with diving head first into the cool, plummeting depths of my own experience than I am with loosening the tightened and burned muscles in the hearts of others. Which is not to say that I don't make my small contributions in teaching children and supporting those who devote the ample parts of their existence to justice, or reserving my contribution to a few miserable industries, but it is not my tattooed creed.
Though there was a time when I cared desperately about other people and I breathe and seek longingly after that person but she is not even the fading memory of a muggy dream that was definitely mine. She is like an unfamiliar stranger I secretly admire. I wonder if we ever even shared the same oxygen or if at some point I was jaded and reborn through the coarse and jagged ass hole of doubt.
Probably the latter. . .