try to keep our eyes on the big picture, but the picture keeps getting bigger
One of the most overwhelming of my most worthless fears is that I am going to think myself into a black hole before I'm thirty. By the time I die I will have come to a place where I can no longer open my mouth and speak anything true. I will have unproven everything that ever proved to me that life has any sort of rational answers.
I still believe that there is some answer, even if it takes a lifetime to learn and absolutely cannot be articulated or passed on. This belief keeps that fear at bay, but welcomes in another. As afraid as I am of never finding anything, I far more stricken when I imagine my life in twenty years and see myself complete. My philosophy, my prejudices, my clothes, my habits, my treatment of others...all solidified.
Though in times past this question was merely rhetorical, today it is a real concern: Would I rather be stagnant and complete or a total basketcase?
Of course there is the middle ground, but will it ever really be a homogenized middle gray, or endlessly alternating black, white, black, white, black, white ad infinitum? My life is very often sublime, regardless of its tone, but even that is exhausting. Everything is. And not to my eyes or my limbs, which are young and easily restored by passing out on a couch...rather, it's exhausting to that mysterious machine which generates my enthusiasm for live, which generates love in quantities which overwhelm the distaste and resentment, which generates all the thoughts which keep walks down long, dead, winter roads from numbing me outside and in.
I still believe that there is some answer, even if it takes a lifetime to learn and absolutely cannot be articulated or passed on. This belief keeps that fear at bay, but welcomes in another. As afraid as I am of never finding anything, I far more stricken when I imagine my life in twenty years and see myself complete. My philosophy, my prejudices, my clothes, my habits, my treatment of others...all solidified.
Though in times past this question was merely rhetorical, today it is a real concern: Would I rather be stagnant and complete or a total basketcase?
Of course there is the middle ground, but will it ever really be a homogenized middle gray, or endlessly alternating black, white, black, white, black, white ad infinitum? My life is very often sublime, regardless of its tone, but even that is exhausting. Everything is. And not to my eyes or my limbs, which are young and easily restored by passing out on a couch...rather, it's exhausting to that mysterious machine which generates my enthusiasm for live, which generates love in quantities which overwhelm the distaste and resentment, which generates all the thoughts which keep walks down long, dead, winter roads from numbing me outside and in.