From the Archives of 2003
So this morning, a former co-worker of mine sends me an E-Mail that I'd sent him way back in 2003. I used to write him stuff like this all the time, just because. I love the fact he still has it.
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I have no valid reason for sending this message other than taking up yet another small bit of finite space that is the universe, both the metaphysical and actual. Soon, speaking (writing, rather) in relative terms, all the energy that the universe contains shall be no more; we consume without knowing the value of what we consume, we waste finite resources that we think are infinite; even now, my typing devours valuable life from the universe, even as my own life force grows dimmer (I am, after all, aging at this moment). The ceaseless vitality of youth, only an illusory construct designed to protect our sniveling souls from the truth - the never ending dance with death where, in the end, we always and without fail, lose - no longer provides comfort in these eras of darkness guised in the light of hope and virility.
The end is, was, will be. The beginning? The same. Yet, so far removed from genesis, I cannot breathe in the rays of aspiration across the vast chasm of time. The world becomes vapid before our very eyes, yet we do not see, we cannot see, we dare not. Blind, deaf, and dumb to all but our own worlds, the ones we create within ourselves and even within others to guard against the horrid vile truth, those fantastical creations are our bastions of safety. Only, their paper mache walls crumble under the power of a feather, leaving us naked and exposed to that which we take such great pains to flee.
Your own personal heaven or hell, purgatory or nothingness, lies stale and dead. Only inside, you cannot see the decaying flesh of your own mythology. Lose yourself, cling to yourself, does it matter? Can you even formulate, even comprehend, the question? Do you see your own physicality, your own philosophy, your wormlike entanglement around the falsities created by ignorance of what exists beyond your pitiable so called vision? Feeble enlightenment, even it mocks you, taunting with astute insipid lies that you accept and believe without question.
What saves you? Condemns you? Helps? Hurts? Breathes life? Removes it? The answer? Does one exist? Think, strain, ponder, ask, grasp, claw, reach, sacrifice. And then, begin.
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I have no valid reason for sending this message other than taking up yet another small bit of finite space that is the universe, both the metaphysical and actual. Soon, speaking (writing, rather) in relative terms, all the energy that the universe contains shall be no more; we consume without knowing the value of what we consume, we waste finite resources that we think are infinite; even now, my typing devours valuable life from the universe, even as my own life force grows dimmer (I am, after all, aging at this moment). The ceaseless vitality of youth, only an illusory construct designed to protect our sniveling souls from the truth - the never ending dance with death where, in the end, we always and without fail, lose - no longer provides comfort in these eras of darkness guised in the light of hope and virility.
The end is, was, will be. The beginning? The same. Yet, so far removed from genesis, I cannot breathe in the rays of aspiration across the vast chasm of time. The world becomes vapid before our very eyes, yet we do not see, we cannot see, we dare not. Blind, deaf, and dumb to all but our own worlds, the ones we create within ourselves and even within others to guard against the horrid vile truth, those fantastical creations are our bastions of safety. Only, their paper mache walls crumble under the power of a feather, leaving us naked and exposed to that which we take such great pains to flee.
Your own personal heaven or hell, purgatory or nothingness, lies stale and dead. Only inside, you cannot see the decaying flesh of your own mythology. Lose yourself, cling to yourself, does it matter? Can you even formulate, even comprehend, the question? Do you see your own physicality, your own philosophy, your wormlike entanglement around the falsities created by ignorance of what exists beyond your pitiable so called vision? Feeble enlightenment, even it mocks you, taunting with astute insipid lies that you accept and believe without question.
What saves you? Condemns you? Helps? Hurts? Breathes life? Removes it? The answer? Does one exist? Think, strain, ponder, ask, grasp, claw, reach, sacrifice. And then, begin.
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