Existence is no more than the precarious attainment
of relevance in an intensely mobile flux of past, present and future.
But even the most relevant events carry within them the form of their obsolescence.

Thus, a single work is eventually a contribution to a body of work;
the details of a life form part of a life history;
an individual life history appears unintelligible
apart from social, economic, and cultural history;
and the life of a society is the sum of "preceding conditions."

life has a way of fucking you over
except life is abstract
and not yourself?
so how can it be doing it

i don't know what i'm doing here
three years from the last time
looking over this webbing of memories

nostalgia truly is rose covered glass

my stream of consciousness is a trickle

no no

not even a trickle

and my tabula rasa is freshly scrubbed

no way to describe these (lack of) emotions

fundamentally something has changed in my mind

perhaps maturity and moving away from my

'formative years'

but these dark thoughts do not plague me -- existential

i guess i've seen enough that the thoughts are no longer

abstract

my fears, depression and anxiety now is a vivid reality

embedding solidly in reality

my artistry and wordplay has been dulled by academia

creativity crushed by the demands of tweed jackets

three years

i suppose thoughts age well

maybe because they're no longer freshly seeped

maybe my choice of entertainment and consumption has deteriorated

sedated me into a lull of mindlessness and unable to fathom deeper thought

maybe i was truly brilliant and looking back now, with awe, i realize

i'm a shadow of my former self

was that state of mind worth the brilliance coming from it?

perhaps, perhaps not. that is a dangerous line of thought

am i happier?

am i the same?

why does my keyboard want to double space?

will this be seen as brilliant as my former work?

like the end of something wonderful sometimes

the heat just consumes until the end is 

perfectly infused into the entropy that is nothingness

how inconsequentially aligned finite endings are to

entropic confusion and pointless thoughts

when it rains it's poor

isn't that the adage?

when the life blood is most needed it's

just collected in a dilapidated bucket

still leaking in the bottom

i guess the filigree written in reality

the finest fucking lines ever written

are "the end is just a beginning"

and nothing is really concluded except

for each individual quanta of time that

will never be repeated and never be felt or 

understood again

the conflagration is all consuming

enveloping with it old worry and my old self

leaving behind (rising in new glory)
a more imperfect form

full of anxiety and stress

the only thing left to do then

is to accept chaos as a constant

nothing is a realization of substance

and to realize all things

just aren't meant to align

 

i haven't posted in a while
so much has happened
so much good and
so much whatever

i don't really know where to begin
the introspection that used to plague (or bless) my subconscious
seems to have taken a long holiday and
i guess it's there it'll stay

instead i rush around thinking of the here and now
caught spinning and turning
dancing the Pidikhtos, circular
directional but never really going anywhere

and i guess that's where i am now
lost and not really able to express my thoughts
and i truly ask myself if i'll ever be able to again

i reread a lot of my blog and the posts and realized
that i have a way with words
and perhaps it's just me and it's my own
validation because i expressed feelings i can related to

but if i express feelings i understand
then maybe someone else also relates

maybe that's the thing with writing
why some authors just get it.
you read and you relate intimately for no
justifiable or tangible reason

in my case it's easy, i wrote them
but i sometimes give this blog to friends
as a way to say 'this is how i really am'
because to me it so perfectly paints the details
that make up who i am

but really it can be reduced to a few short lines
that don't rhyme or really have any rhythm to them
that are read more out of pity rather than conception

looking over things

i guess January was either perfect 

or perfectly distracting because i didn't write at all

i was playing football with a kid i knew

and we began talking and i guess

i can't avoid talking about either myself

(self-absorption)

or about deep subjects

(self-indulgence)

or both

(self-grandeur)

but i talked about depression

and without really talking about it i told him

all the shit that my life has been made of

the deep fissures of darkness that swallow up

rational thought into inexplicable obsessions of irrationality

speculations and fear developed solely from speculation

and without actually saying anything

i painted a web waxwork fear and darkness, which

the truth seemed to appear

of course when i talk about it i myself begin to slip back

into the caverns, being caught in the very web i'm spinning

but perhaps most importantly as i struggle into the web

and wrap myself into hopelessness

i look into myself and reflect

and this deep self-reflection i personally attribute

to my depression

although now i reflect deeply when depressed, i think

that it started out

with deep reflection on who i was and the uncertainty and the

speculation of what i was that planted that seed that grew into the 

entangled mess that is my torture

and for that i'm grateful

not because being depressed is great

and life is wonderful, but because

well i have a certain perspective

a perspective unique to me, deep to me

and sure someone else has thought of it

but the synthesis from within myself draws its own conclusions

which allows me to related deeply

and understand deeply

but deep understanding means nothing

if i'm wrapped in nothingness.  

it's curious to me when things go wrong
cascading into almost limitless expanse
what is even more odd is the sudden turn around
i continually model my world after laws
scientific ideals and truth that i can see and handle
and yet, sometimes, real life just simply
doesn't work

i guess...
well i don't really know.
but existence isn't comprehensible
and i've spent time reading and writing
contemplating and questioning what it all means
because meaning... well
meaning needs to exist when you have laws
predictability and principles
the core of meaninglessness is randomness and nothingness
the synonym, pointless
pointless
really meaning it doesn't come to a head,
never resolves
never really concludes or gives way to something else
it just is

things just seem to happen, good or bad
and i conclude them good or bad based on feelings i have
feelings given by complicated mechanisms that are almost literally
unexplained.
so for unexplained reasons (beyond the superficial) i feel
and those feelings constitute whether or not something is good or bad,
or in other words, hold meaning
and the feelings are almost random, unpredictable and lawless
literally without principle or prediction
and without principles or laws
really, it's meaningless
it just is

and if those feelings
(for which we live) cannot provide meaning
then what does?
and if life is built up of correlational feelings
then is life meaningless?
and if life is meaningless, and that is the reality of existence
what really is existence?
clearly it is not found by some deeper understanding
of the fate of humanity or the universe or anything
buried in books or nature
because all those things are baseless, meaningless
and quite literally
existence is beyond comprehension.