I won the human race..
In the human race, I won.
The infinite improbability generator tells me that there are over 9,967 more prominent things I could be doing, rather then sitting here and pondering these chaos and immortalizing theories.
Yet, here I sit. Blathering on to a piece of paper. A piece of paper invented before the dawn of time, (rather, the concept of time, and the essence of the people who used it.) a simple piece of bloody paper. Why? Why bother, the paper shan't offer me any strength to continue the battle from which I have fallen, self mutilated, and woefully counter productive. The battle from which I have unintentionally drafted every shred of confidence and belief a person can have at one time in his life. Because I questioned. Because I am different. Now these are my casualties. Because I don't believe so I can believe and I believe what I can't. The indignant, poignant, malignant, battle of life. Life, morality, the quest for meaning, and the lethal quest for love..
Do I ask that this parchment BE a social worker? Offer me a miracle? I don't know. I know beyond the shadowy "truth" that the floor will be there every morning when I crawl from my bed, that no.. it can't offer me that much. Nor would I want insight into the fates, for every time you look at the future, it changes because you looked at it. Besides, I would much rather be suprized, for what is life if you know the story? What risks? What substance?
Is there such a thing as fate? I was content for several years believing this fable.. However, as I said, my beliefs have been drafted and are MIA. If we have much to say about our future, do we in fact control our own destinies?
And yet.. the paper offers me understanding. It won't judge, ask questions, OR, much to it's discernment, offer any answers, either. And yet it does. It offers new insight. It puts it out there. So maybe, maybe, it is better.
Fucking paper..
I want much to make sense of this, why can't it all be spelled out.. perhaps that is what this pathetic prolix is for.
Perhaps, we all have demons in our heads, preventing us from seeing the feelings in our hearts and minds, perhaps we all dream when we lay our heads, and the answers are woven in too-detailed a web. I don't feel like leaving until all I have learned is proved useful...I don't like to forget. Perhaps we all realize what's real everyday and when we rest we all forget. Perhaps we cling too deeply to meaning to see it. Perhaps we try too hard to dream more then be it.
I try to read, somehow even lost in the adventure, I still think..I still get lost in my head. I focus on the words, and have to read them several times before I can actually attend them, over the lumbering sweep of a bleeding torrent of emotions. I've lost what they've said. There's noise in the background too, I have enough distractions..yet..
I try to pull myself from my heart because I must drive, the stars sing to me, I focus on nothing. I make up dreams, and fears just to have any distraction. It keeps finding me, no matter how dark or how light of a place I find. Clearly this is over my head. I try to sleep, my dreams assault me, and leave me with no better understanding, only deeper questions.
The infinite improbability generator tells me that there are over 9,967 more prominent things I could be doing, rather then sitting here and pondering these chaos and immortalizing theories.
Yet, here I sit. Blathering on to a piece of paper. A piece of paper invented before the dawn of time, (rather, the concept of time, and the essence of the people who used it.) a simple piece of bloody paper. Why? Why bother, the paper shan't offer me any strength to continue the battle from which I have fallen, self mutilated, and woefully counter productive. The battle from which I have unintentionally drafted every shred of confidence and belief a person can have at one time in his life. Because I questioned. Because I am different. Now these are my casualties. Because I don't believe so I can believe and I believe what I can't. The indignant, poignant, malignant, battle of life. Life, morality, the quest for meaning, and the lethal quest for love..
Do I ask that this parchment BE a social worker? Offer me a miracle? I don't know. I know beyond the shadowy "truth" that the floor will be there every morning when I crawl from my bed, that no.. it can't offer me that much. Nor would I want insight into the fates, for every time you look at the future, it changes because you looked at it. Besides, I would much rather be suprized, for what is life if you know the story? What risks? What substance?
Is there such a thing as fate? I was content for several years believing this fable.. However, as I said, my beliefs have been drafted and are MIA. If we have much to say about our future, do we in fact control our own destinies?
And yet.. the paper offers me understanding. It won't judge, ask questions, OR, much to it's discernment, offer any answers, either. And yet it does. It offers new insight. It puts it out there. So maybe, maybe, it is better.
Fucking paper..
I want much to make sense of this, why can't it all be spelled out.. perhaps that is what this pathetic prolix is for.
Perhaps, we all have demons in our heads, preventing us from seeing the feelings in our hearts and minds, perhaps we all dream when we lay our heads, and the answers are woven in too-detailed a web. I don't feel like leaving until all I have learned is proved useful...I don't like to forget. Perhaps we all realize what's real everyday and when we rest we all forget. Perhaps we cling too deeply to meaning to see it. Perhaps we try too hard to dream more then be it.
I try to read, somehow even lost in the adventure, I still think..I still get lost in my head. I focus on the words, and have to read them several times before I can actually attend them, over the lumbering sweep of a bleeding torrent of emotions. I've lost what they've said. There's noise in the background too, I have enough distractions..yet..
I try to pull myself from my heart because I must drive, the stars sing to me, I focus on nothing. I make up dreams, and fears just to have any distraction. It keeps finding me, no matter how dark or how light of a place I find. Clearly this is over my head. I try to sleep, my dreams assault me, and leave me with no better understanding, only deeper questions.