And there was light.
Indeed, strange times are upon us.
A world of chaotic tendencies, faltering with every passing minute of existing reality due to the inherent propensity of the human frailty to commit mistakes of a specific--if not of a greater--degree that far outweigh their capacity to exact restitution or rectification. This is an era of pointless choices, one that blatantly offends any humanistic revolution of any time that has already passed. This is the era of the boundless idea, but it is not an era where we even think anymore.
It used to be that we always had something up our sleeve, we who want to consider ourselves above and beyond the call of our mortal skin. Alas, borrowed time dampens our skills and the concept of an immortal achievement is lost in favor of the desire to cherish in a myriad number of ways the seemingly few years of our conscious existence. In a time where we could have conjured a universe with a hat trick, we've become artists who prefer to escape the magical act of escaping the glass cage. Our magic is now lost.
I ask any soul, what really does change the nature of men? Every fleeting moment, I look back further than I would have wanted and I wish no less than the greediest of the dead to return in time to set straight the written line. Always, always, I'm moving against a flow that I myself was the catalyst. Closing one end of this tunnel of madness means I have to drown in the darkness that is to follow.
A reader that never did understand, and yet I've always read more than the common man. I've thought of the supermen and the feared princes, and how we couldn't have gotten them more wrong. I've once written out a rebuttal to an age-old idea, only to convince myself that I have otherwise written something that will not hold up in an era of preconceived notions about whatever has already been written. Whereas my mind exists to wallow in the laziness that the search of enlightenment entails, the world exists to remind me that, indeed, there are more things in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in my philosophies. A deathly pity.
In times of absolute denial of reality, I write. Of the multitude of words, nearly everything has been exiled into the void. Every corner of my mind screams in agony with every death, and I die even more at the expected onslaught of failed memory. I live in a time of immortality, yet it is not an immortality of life or memory but of forgetfulness. Nothingness is the one true eternal. To think is to be, but to forget is to become. A pointless tautology, and yet I succumb to it.
Random and incomplete musings paired with the indomitable cold of an indubitably silent morning. Fragments of thoughts and journeys of the mind that made a turn to a dead-end. A half-assed attempt at answering one question only to come up with more.
Truly, an era of ideas but--perhaps--never of thought anymore.
===
A recent waking dream:
At the edges of Creation, a little girl found herself before the Gate That Never Opens. Beyond it stands the Keeper of Lore, Master of the Unchallenged Secrets. He sees the little girl and, in a voice of a thousand splendid supernovas, declared, "The Great Mystery is too much for the likes of you to comprehend. Unless you answer my three questions, you shall not pass."
The little girl looked at the Keeper of Lore curiously, bent her small head slightly backwards, and let out a small twinkling laugh. Breathlessly, she replied, "You're a funny one, Mister. I don't need to answer anything because you don't have to ask anything. That gate never does open. It never will."
She tapped her foot on the starlit ground and whirled around. With a light step, she started walking away. Then, as if forgetting something, she slightly leaned backward and looked back. Seeing the Keeper's baffled face, she remarked, "Besides, we're not allowed to go outside anyway."
A world of chaotic tendencies, faltering with every passing minute of existing reality due to the inherent propensity of the human frailty to commit mistakes of a specific--if not of a greater--degree that far outweigh their capacity to exact restitution or rectification. This is an era of pointless choices, one that blatantly offends any humanistic revolution of any time that has already passed. This is the era of the boundless idea, but it is not an era where we even think anymore.
It used to be that we always had something up our sleeve, we who want to consider ourselves above and beyond the call of our mortal skin. Alas, borrowed time dampens our skills and the concept of an immortal achievement is lost in favor of the desire to cherish in a myriad number of ways the seemingly few years of our conscious existence. In a time where we could have conjured a universe with a hat trick, we've become artists who prefer to escape the magical act of escaping the glass cage. Our magic is now lost.
I ask any soul, what really does change the nature of men? Every fleeting moment, I look back further than I would have wanted and I wish no less than the greediest of the dead to return in time to set straight the written line. Always, always, I'm moving against a flow that I myself was the catalyst. Closing one end of this tunnel of madness means I have to drown in the darkness that is to follow.
A reader that never did understand, and yet I've always read more than the common man. I've thought of the supermen and the feared princes, and how we couldn't have gotten them more wrong. I've once written out a rebuttal to an age-old idea, only to convince myself that I have otherwise written something that will not hold up in an era of preconceived notions about whatever has already been written. Whereas my mind exists to wallow in the laziness that the search of enlightenment entails, the world exists to remind me that, indeed, there are more things in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in my philosophies. A deathly pity.
In times of absolute denial of reality, I write. Of the multitude of words, nearly everything has been exiled into the void. Every corner of my mind screams in agony with every death, and I die even more at the expected onslaught of failed memory. I live in a time of immortality, yet it is not an immortality of life or memory but of forgetfulness. Nothingness is the one true eternal. To think is to be, but to forget is to become. A pointless tautology, and yet I succumb to it.
Random and incomplete musings paired with the indomitable cold of an indubitably silent morning. Fragments of thoughts and journeys of the mind that made a turn to a dead-end. A half-assed attempt at answering one question only to come up with more.
Truly, an era of ideas but--perhaps--never of thought anymore.
===
A recent waking dream:
At the edges of Creation, a little girl found herself before the Gate That Never Opens. Beyond it stands the Keeper of Lore, Master of the Unchallenged Secrets. He sees the little girl and, in a voice of a thousand splendid supernovas, declared, "The Great Mystery is too much for the likes of you to comprehend. Unless you answer my three questions, you shall not pass."
The little girl looked at the Keeper of Lore curiously, bent her small head slightly backwards, and let out a small twinkling laugh. Breathlessly, she replied, "You're a funny one, Mister. I don't need to answer anything because you don't have to ask anything. That gate never does open. It never will."
She tapped her foot on the starlit ground and whirled around. With a light step, she started walking away. Then, as if forgetting something, she slightly leaned backward and looked back. Seeing the Keeper's baffled face, she remarked, "Besides, we're not allowed to go outside anyway."