There is perhaps nothing that I would rather not do. I could do anything but this and be happier, but I suppoae that I must. I don't know why we are forced into situations and relationships. There is no will, here. Just a prayer to live through what is to come. I know that I "should" be grateful. Everyone has a fear of suicide and there is a stupid idea that to merely breathe is to live and that to live is good. Sartre and Camus have taught us otherwise. I did not choose my birth or birthplace. Did you? Did you choose your hair or eye color? Your color of skin? Your nationality? Did you pick your parents? I was thrust into existence and I am told that there or here, I must stay. What is it about breathing that is desirable, over not breathing? One day, years ago, I was not yet conceived. Was the world any less full or real because of it? There was no grasp on it, here, but was there a real deficit? I think not. Why would there be? Gaia moves and flows. In flux. I am not necessary. But I will let my soul grow. Thanks to Vonnegut, I see. Act and create. Practice. Become.
I never thought I would be where I am: on the shores under the night sky with nothing on my mind. I never thought I’d have time to ponder things like “love” and “mercy.” I guess I’ve always been pre-occupied with the grains of sand hurling and tumbling down the hourglass. And I want to be a slow-motion sand grain (the very last one to slide through that narrow passage from what was above to what is below). And when I pounce on the pile, from my inevitable and reverent fall, the celebration will begin and all my lovers and all my companions and all my mentors and all my antagonists converge at a shore, under the sky, by the bonfire, and then begins real fellowship. Soon. I never thought I’d be here, pondering these simple things.
I've feared falling in love for so long, that I hadn't realized it was already happening. You're gnarly, and you don't apologize for it--except at 1:00am in drive thru lines. As you mumble apologies about your emotional setbacks in the middle of asking if at least the sex is good enough to make up for it all. And all I can do is laugh and tell you that we're fine. You're drunk, and I'm taking you home. You're being sweet, and rambling about how much you like me. You're asking how I'm okay with all of your flaws and I don't have an answer, i just am. I don't think about it, I just feel it, and when I listen to the beat of your heart late at night I know that you're really just human, and that you're feelings and faults are just human too.
fires burn throughout the parallel dimensions of our lives. what is a person other than a temporary contraction of matter, that waddles through the burning world trying to become something transcendent? it's metaphysical jazz and nobody knows how it will go. we try not to think about it, but we poked by a divide, a wide wide variety of possibilities. years... we might get 30 more, we might get 5. we start epic projects without knowing if we will have anywhere near the time necessary to complete them. we push the boulder and manage the crop. we plan out things, schedule our time. the world is on fire while we scamper to transcend. "we're running out of time!" metaphysical jazz bullies us, and we've no choice but to dance.
I’m not trying to be circular, I’m trying to learn. We’ve all wandered through these realms of academia, and we've all bounced off these pillars of skepticism. We’ve seen 'proofs' destroy 'doubts,' then seen objections rise from the ashes to deconstruct those very same proofs. And all we want is to be loved, and to maybe have one good laugh every day. To eat something sweet. To see something grand. But before our epistemic eyes, hooligans rise from their oppression-pits to sour our sweets and darken our grand thing that we’re trying to view. And they are the ones who get the good laugh. And it is just really unfair. So we retreat to our books. We retreat to our academic caverns. We challenge smaller foes and eat subtler foods. We know we can’t get what we want. We mope, briefly, then we are on our way again. Back on the trail. Back down the path.