(no subject)
for i had been treading great circles, spiraling a mobile of weeks suspended by a fish line delicately taped to your tattered ceiling; an encyclopedia of great questions, that one outlined in red ink-- your apogee of a sort-- with its nod to cliché yet still permitted by and through the lens of the almighty human struggle: "what is the meaning of life? what is my purpose if i am only inevitably going to die? how can i live with such consciousness?" ...and it was there, crippled beneath that avalanche of such vengeful waves, that all truth lost its meaning: structures were tugged to the ground by the very mathematical axioms that had failed them; children floated up through the atmosphere taunting the very prospect of an opposing gravitational force; men died and they just died-- bodies as skeletons held the same value as when coated with flesh. placing the last piece you learn you have purchased the wrong puzzle-- don't you see? you have asked the wrong questions, and the ultimate question, that one dripping in blood, that root of all anxiety, would never have led to where you were truly destined, that paradise where you would say your heart yearns toward. suppose you conclude that life is nothing; is there not also meaning in that? why is there a meaning to life? or why should there be? what fuels the pursuit for that one speck of knowledge? i say love and faith and hope are privileged passes for self-destruction. today i saw a glimpse of a foreign world, but 'twas such a slight peek that i can now only sit here and wait to stage that next moment where by chance i may witness a bit more-- become a bit more.