(no subject)
dash it all, auguste rodin, i'm fed up with thoughtful reveries. tell me, when will the time to dream be over? across the arc of our days, we never cease to fantasise, enamoured as we are with the breathless promise of a better tomorrow. again and again, we cast our eyes forth to the future and construct a royal story around us. but despite this giddy prospecting, our aspirations are all a pretence, a way to convince ourselves that we can compensate in days to come for our failure to understand the days before us; to make up later for the absent present, which flickers away from us even as we live it all out. our everyday existence, you see, seems transparent at first but remains so mysterious upon deeper inspection that we are forced to draw our co-ordinates elsewhere, to find our feet ahead of us, in an imaginary time. and in doing so, we succumb to a perpetual habit and mend our broken beings with make believe. acting our years out as usual, we relegate ourselves to a lifetime of dreaming, radiant with possibility, narrow as a prison. fist against teeth, we sit to think, to be free, but then find we can never recover the strength to stand again. and in this way, our lives are laid out and lost for all eternity, and our directions are set - suddenly and irrevocably - in the devastating certainty of stone. i guess it must be this fact that weighs down the thinker's shoulders.