Personal

Refining My Thoughts

Over the past 100 days or so, I started writing for the first time. I bled onto the page and it illuminated the metaphysics of my internal essence to date, across many disparate writings.

It has come to my senses that the things I write begin to buckle underneath the fragmented format that I have employed thus far. Many of my writings are difficult to read, not because the syntax itself is difficult to parse but rather that coherence requires familiarity with other fragments. It is only logical to then believe that I must create a longer, systematic writing.

Connection And Love

Our hands locked together, and despite this finite moment, despite the realization that eventually our hands must pull away, I knew this to be a fact: this finite moment is infinite.

I could see in your eyes a deep well, the most beautiful illusion of stable sustenance in the cracked desert of this pulsing existence. And many people have come to appreciate this beauty and craftsmanship.

Yet the only thing I could notice were the most beautiful fractures. The most subtle lines, often the indicator of collapse soon to come.

Duty

My life and breath are enslaved under the most mysterious debt. The gravity of this loan may be called duty.

And somehow the creditor is beyond cognition. Only in my essence do I feel the undercurrents of its demands.

The terms of this master can not be resolved by answering the question, "Why do I exist? What do I exist to do?"

Rather, the appropriate question is, "What absence would ripple in my departure?"

Obligation

Worn out, like a tire that has traveled tens of thousands of miles.

Exhaustion.

How do people survive? I don't know.

There exists within me the energy to survive - to eat enough food, to drink water, to sleep. It exists. It is real.

But why can I keep my body alive and still fail to live?

It is incredibly funny and revealing that I have the energy to reflect and write this, but I still have not handled my obligations.

Reflecting on Reflecting

Inside my essence exists a ghastly chasm between my rational mind and the void.

There are truths that I can logically recognize: I enjoy writing, I enjoy thinking, I enjoy petting my cat.

There are phenomena that I can not logically recognize: why I feel compelled to write, why I enjoy thinking even though it seems futile, why I feel such connection, adoration, and love for a temporary being.

In early July, I wrote Progress and Collapse where I theorizied and reasoned onto the page that human progression is inwards obliteration, an implosion of… everything.