"Resurrection" is not an amusing word, but I keep the strange company that chooses to laugh...

Almost an entire year living in the same city. It's almost as if my deeply tumultuous relationship with the concept called nostalgia is maturing. Or... I've successfully averted the risk of making memories here. I float through this place as if only one of us really exists, and neither will ever find out which one. 

Not all has changed though. Yesterday, a colleague who comes with the rare built-in features of great spirit and genuinely solid character, pulled the most overworked amongst us together and took us to a shooting range at the end of a particularly demanding day. Merrily, we rode a golf-cart. The gentle hum of its engine harmonising with the distant gunshots, as he described telling our co-workers about the plan earlier. Everyone he spoke to, made the same joke about the many perils of putting me and ammunition together. I may have had my sunniest impersonation of a smile on for the last 10 months, but there's more truth to my advertising than there are holes in my targets.

***

This here is a place that was made with great, great love 10 years ago. Angst and rage and bewilderment and wonder, sure... all the elemental constituents of a great love. 2009 was when I came here to find a vat I designed to pour the excesses of my personality into. 2019 is the year I come here, to find parts of myself that were too heavy and non-aerodynamic to carry into the hyper-optimised adulthood I've designed to usually move at a slightly punishing pace.

***

I turned thirty this year. I've lived in fourteen houses. I've attended seven schools. I've lived in seven cities, but cycled between them thirteen times. I've fallen in love thrice. I've fallen out of it once. I've simplified my story by enumerating parts, often. 

I've lived completely by myself under solitary-confinement levels of isolation for months at a time. I've socialised till my knees buckled and collapsed into a pile of friends sleeping like puppies, and stayed motionless through the night. I have taken intercontinental flights to unfamiliar lands by myself for no particular reason, and walked the length and breadth of the cities I found myself in. I've traveled 17 hours to see my favourite people and crammed enough "living" in those few days than I would otherwise live in a lifetime. I've won over my critics, and been terribly negligent with what were the kindest of my people. I have given (and received) great measures of fondness and gratitude.  I've traveled miles and eons into the unknown with strangers, but sometimes failed to find a familiar bone in my proverbial tribe. I've seen, heard, tasted, and felt things the intensity and perfection of which I cannot - on most days and in good sense - deem possible. I've romanticised my story by preserving snapshots like pressed flowers, often.

***

The dinkus (three-asterisk punctuation used liberally in this post) reminds me of the formaldehyde smell of freshly-printed grade-school examination sheets. All printed in thin, unsettling Courier New. The kind that were imperfectly punched and scattered tiny white paper circles on your uniform. The kind that used extremely thin paper, seemingly designed to self-destruct after the school year is buried under a thick layer of awkwardness, social trauma, teenage anxiety, and regrets. I got excellent grades in school, but this memory makes me nervous. I grew up in the format of a shuddering ball comprised almost entirely of nerves, and my childhood was a panic attack that lasted 9 years. Now I'm a Type A, ENTJ professional "fixer" with a reputation for taking no prisoners, so life sure ensures balance and symmetry in creatively cruel fashion. The many successes of overcompensation may have taught me some questionable lessons. 

***

My heroes have grown old and some are dying. This is a variety of heartbreak I was unprepared for, which makes me question the necessity of linear time and madly lust after the power of infinite memory. Knowing fully well that that which is my deepest desire is very clearly and predictably my ultimate downfall. 

The heart wants what it wants; and this heart has been known to hold a lifelong grudge against Newtonian physics.

Aftermath.

After the battlefield is finally cold, and the sun has set on the massacre it witnessed, it is memory that poisons those who survive. No matter which side you pledged, dwelling on each blow will kill even the victor. Eventually... and indiscriminately. 

Listen Without Prejudice.

Given enough time, everything decays into rage. It courses through the veins, thicker than blood. It burns brighter than most fires you and I have known. It lives. 

Burning out is a gift, a blown fuse being the final line of defense before the carnage. The limit of human capacity for enduring pain protects not itself, but the source. 

But there are those who don't burn out. Those misguided into striving for invincibility, can only come burning and blazing, or not come at all. They forget how to half-live, they know not how to half-love. Run enough pain through them, and they become live wires; obliterating everything they touch, knowing neither peace nor loss. The current, it's possible, would never stop.

This Is Not A Pipe.

It is when people come to a point where they think they know you, they stop noticing you. When that moment is reached, you could simply keep feeding their illusions and self-serving need to believe that they understand and are in control of much more than reality would have it be. 

It becomes so terribly easy to step behind a curtain of their own making, cast mere shadows on the cloth, and let mere assumptions vivify the act right into real life. The audience will love it so dearly, so completely (for narcissistic love of one's own creation is convenient enough), that every contradictory truth in the field of vision becomes immaterial. 

Surely, evolution has done the world a great disservice. 

Breaking silences and gentler things.

I often wake up wanting nothing more than to strip the world bare. 

Pull little parts off with my own hands, crumble them like clay, observe the texture of every slice, the cross-section of every joint, and somehow come closer to making sense of all these events that are entirely unlikely but painfully predictable, all at the same time. Instead of just watching them unfold before me, just as I imagined them a thousand hours, weeks, or years ago. Just as I could never really believe they would. It's the ultimate existential conflict. Subjective optimism is up against objective reality. The crazy, stupid things we do to keep the little flame of hope alive. 

I'd like to crumble every bit under the tips of my fingers, smudge them with the friction of the ridges that make up my fingerprints, and re-engineer reality to be little less obvious. To be a little more kind.

More.

12.02
I miss certain things, so much more than I ever wanted them. And sweet heavens, I wanted them so so much, that the "wanting" and the "pursuit" was all that was left of me. As long as the hours are filled up with just a little more than they can contain, the days are bearable, and the nights are dispensable. It's when peace dawns that the real commotion sets in. When it's quiet, it's hard to bear being in one's own head.

12.02

An unfortunate state of affairs, it certainly is, that we've landed in this situation. Had we met elsewhere, in a different life, this would have panned out very differently I'm sure. But this world is a complicated place, and the only point of contact is also the core point of conflict. 

So what chance do we have?

11.02

A shrink in the making says that if there's one thing that's changed over the years, it's the fact that I've succumbed to "being more mainstream". I think I've merely identified a need to create a character that is more "mainstream", acquired the ability to vivify it, and the capacity to switch it on and off at will. As the years roll along, I'm not quite changing as much as I am growing several different people in one exceedingly capacious head.

09.10

If I say to you that the world as we know it is coming to an end, you wouldn't so much as raise an eyebrow. Sure, I believe you can move mountains with a flick of your little finger. Sure, you tread the earth like you own it. Sure, everything is a victory to you. And every conquest pushes you higher up on your pedestal. But would you ever change things, not because you could, but because you wanted to?

12.09
It gets crowded. So very crowded. Inside my head.

The puppetmaster is me, the puppets are also me. Each puppet a tiny part of my entire self. Each persona a tweaked and tuned modulation of the various behavioral patterns, memories and belief systems that make up a person, adjusted to just the right degree to attain a certain cause, a particular end, or a purpose, like the knobs and dials on a complex piece of musical equipment.

All these blogs I write that chronicle each one of these lives are all headed in separate directions, all over the place. I don't like where either of them are headed. Neither these people, nor their stories.The puppetmaster right in the middle is having his limbs torn out of his sockets, struggling to hold on to strings that just happen to exhibit incredulous tensile strength.

13.02

I woke up feeling 17 today. Led zeppelin playing in the head, spring in the step. It's been a while, but so easy ti is to map what was there then, to what is today. Things should have changed. I wish I could say "Oh, if only I had known the things I know today...", but the truth is, I cannot. I knew. And these 6 years, I haven't found enough new. I now need to fill up feathers and filling into my paragraphs because there is nothing more to be said about the things I already understood perfectly 6 years ago. Time froze, and so did I. Cryogenically, I hope.

11.03

To have power over people, is to either assert a clear and overwhelming intellectual superiority over them, or to seduce and subsequently exercise control. All in all, the keywords remain the same- overwhelm and seduce. But having lost the will for the former, and the moral sanction for the latter, I'm left to trifle with my modest lateral devices. Ah well, Machiavelli shall share a drink tonight.

10.02

Across all of civilization and culture, there is no single insult known to be more effective than a well-timed "point-and-laugh". Fact

11.10

Epiphany. Every thing, concept, incident, occurrence, phenomena and association is about control. Things controlling others, the number of things bearing the influence of control on a single object,  and the degree of the control. And in this system, power is all about the ratio of the degree of control one practices over objects/concepts/people external to oneself, to that which is exercised by external factors onto oneself.

11.10

Owning a fully-customisable cellphone is no joke for the obsessive-compulsive. The sheer amount of time that can be spent moving RGB sliders to get the lower side of the incoming chat bubble to the perfect shade of teal... the boggled mind boggles.

10.06

One of these days, they'll finally catch up to what I've been doing all along.

12.01

Best laid plans backfire. Using humor as a defense mechanism comes to bite you in just the wrong places. The problem? My decision to be amused by every thing that bothers me has led to strange results. The world now thinks I'm drunk all the time.

11.10

The digitized world leaves one in want of romance. There is, of course, romance in uncertainty. In doubt, unfavorable odds, inconvenience, tragedy and in nostalgia. It's hard to place what exactly is lost in the quantisation of things. I think it's the depersonalisation. We rarely think of emails fondly. It's the handwritten letters we archive for years.

09.05

Perhaps irrational masochism isn't all that irrational after all. 

11.10

I know the difference between strength and imperviousness. But in case of emergency, the latter is a serviceable substitute for the former.

12.11

Poignant it is, that all subtleties of the human condition now decay into abstruse facebook privacy settings. So very curious, this time and age.

11.11

...and in a grand ironic spectacle, I realize that even my disregard is insufficiently misplaced.

12.01

I was always told that my words were a gift. That they can do so much that most cannot. That they stir up the deepest of contentions, the strongest of passions, and the most obscure of sentiments. That they can control, contradict, charm and manipulate. Question, sully, extol, or taint. Inspire, persuade or demean. Refute, baffle, overwhelm, and glean. That till I have my words, all can be salvaged. So I've been trying to weave all my little words into alluring patterns and strings, to cast then off into the skies, hoping that somehow, somewhere, they'd land in a place that justifies their existence. Whether my cause has met the intent, I cannot say... but today, what I truly want is to draw ropes and forge chains out of all these little words. What power do they have, after all, if I cannot wrap them around a few things, and make them stay?

12.01

All I really want, is to meet one person everyday, who can tell me something I don't already know.

13.03

I don't even know what normal is, anymore.

12.04

You can either be one of the people who spend their lives talking about the others, or you can be the one they're all talking about. Not a tough choice to make.

12.11

Deceit, the world shall never decry.

Even the moon thrives on borrowed splendor.

Did I really ever see its dark side?

12.11

There is so much music to be found in this world. Everything that is, is music. All patterns, all statistics, all odds, and all objects. They flow, and so does the music. Words flow, and so do these numbers.

13.01

I can feel a storm coming.

13.01

This quill of mine,

today explodes with colour,

seeping into paper,

bleeding into wood.

13.03

Pieces of Radiohead, REM, and RHCP came together, got inspired by Afrobeat, and became Atoms for Peace. Excuse me while I go nuts.

November

Sometime during the while I graduated from having nightmares about explosions to having nightmares about cyclones, reality certainly became less of one. It hasn't nearly been half as cruel as I'd become accustomed to, and a new kind of freedom has been found, it seems. Not the "spread my wings and soar away" variety, but more of a "today, I decide to stop pretending these chains are made of anything more than yarn that I would have slashed away with a fingernail a long time ago, had they not have been a metaphor for something that was rather valuable once upon an unreal and delicately fragile time" kind.

I understand more about this thing people call "human frailty" than ever before. I still call it cowardice, of course... and you, being you, might scoff condescendingly at the fact and shake your head in misleadingly unconvincing exasperation, continuing to unleash upon this world a false sense of security that will forever remain your ultimate, all-serving escape route. But so be it. Like I've said before, this is the way of the world and the world, I will not argue with. It's too predisposed to its own frailties for that. 

Having witnessed my words lose all power the year before, this year was also about reclaiming faith in them. I said so much that needed to be said, in and to people and places, not so respectively. I said that everything in this life is compensated for, and my balance stands levelled and even. Keen and quivering ratio, yes, but balanced nevertheless. I said that these things happen and the victories are not absolute. Nothing, unless broken down to the microscopic level is binary data. And once we're there, we're both the same. Broken down, we're both the exact same sequence of 0s and 1s and QR codes. I said that proof by analogy is never a proof, and I refuse to use it to describe the degree to which our own intent governs our lives in contrast to pure entropy and probability. I said that my violent, passionate, disagreeable self will always be so, because it is the only thing I can be knowing the things I know. I said that I would always go to the greatest lengths to have my environment be a product of my actions, and not vice versa. That my life, my volition, my choices and my loves are entirely my own and so is the responsibility of bearing their consequences. I said that in this wild spinning world, we are specks in the whirlpool. Colliding, drifting, cracking, shifting, breaking, coalescing. When not a single point in these realms stays constant, what do we centre our world around except our own estimations of perspective and standard deviations? I proposed that we take the sum total of all existence, slice it in the dimensions of space and time, and capture a sliver of reality in our minds. Every premise sorted, every colour accounted for. That much of reality, you get to keep. I said a lot of things, and mean them as much today as I did then. I, being me, will continue to do so.

There is more than a glint of hope, you see. This year and a half has brought in a lot of change. Having previously escaped the traps of formal education, it was a concrete step towards making(not finding, for that is too passive) my place in the world. Places, people, cities, and a fair deal of altered states of mind. Green, amber, and the entire rainbow wedged in between. Inconvenient loves and some very convenient hate. Bright lights, and wild nights. It was also the year of fending off droves of the redundant, the fatuous and the wasteful, fighting gender biases tooth and nail, and fighting for the fact that I am responsible only for my own actions, even if the weight and blame makes good stuffing for a communal piñata. The realisation that if the world insists on making me choose between wasting a lot of my time talking about it, or have it waste a disproportionate amount of its own talking about me, I might as well choose the latter despite the associated costs. 

The understanding that if I claim that a person is to be defined by their thoughts, beliefs, premises and ethos, then death is far more threatening a proposition than I ever imagined. Death, of course, of an entirely different sort. There were mountains and beaches and everything in between a million times over again. Music that you could touch, music that killed and resuscitated, music that broke, music that fixed, music that connected a hundred people through one feeling, music that set the air on fire, and music that made my heart want to explode. A lot of things made my heart want to explode, in ways good, bad, and honestly quite messy and ugly. But there is freedom. Never have I felt so wholly responsible for, so completely in control of my own life. Taxes, bills, and paying the rent. Living on my own, and breathing in a decidedly unhealthy amount of rarified oestrogen on a daily basis. 

But you shouldn't dwell, I implore. For "you", you must understand now, is not really you. 

Antecedent to rescue, abject.

Applause, for the irony deserves it.

Champagne, for the problem with this world;

If push must eventually come to shove

a lot in this life can be dealt with,

but nothing will survive too much love.

Crusted.

"There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.", said Douglas Adams. Sounded funny at the time, but fills me with anguish today when I find that what makes up the Universe, indeed, does make everything within it. The minute I begin to celebrate something in a person, it disappears. They don't change as much as simply cease to exit/spontaneously combust. Anything I treasure, I either kill or witness its suicide.  The "or", because in a world as sinister as this, who is to say how far goes the reach of our actions, our thoughts, and words? To what degree is one's happiness, or ardour, or anger, or misery one's own? There is this graph... a mesh. There are people who make up points in the graph. And there are lines of control connecting these people. But the lines are so many, so entangled, so intertwined that NO ONE WILL EVER TRULY KNOW WHO IN THE NAME OF A NON-EXISTENT GOD TUGGED AT THE DAMN STRING THAT PULLED A HUNDRED KNOTS AND TORE A FEW THOUSAND VERTICES OUT OF THEIR PLACE FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME THIS VERY MINUTE IN THE GOOGOLPLEXES OF MINUTES THAT PRECEDE IT AND THE GOOGOLPLEXES THAT FOLLOW, TILL TIME ITSELF BECOMES THE PAINFULLY INADEQUATE CONCEPT OF HUMAN INVENTION THAT IT REALLY IS. It could, after all, have been me. 

Swirls of confetti in a wind tunnel with no gravity.

Tonight, the concept of sleep seems alien, just as it was last night. Sometimes when I roll out the past, the present, and the discernible future in front of me and try to make sense of certain things that simply never will, it gets to be a bit much to handle.Thoughts are like swirls of confetti in a wind tunnel with no gravity. On nights like these, everything that did, can, and does matter comes in quick and disorienting flashes; faster than I can fit into its right place. But just when something up there is dangerously close to cracking, one particular memory works its way into the picture and shoves everything else out. 

When I was 17, I met the most intellectually gifted man I have ever known. Over a significant period of time, we exchanged words, ideas, and entire worlds. One day, in leaving, he said something that stands emblazoned in my memory, to this day. "This road you're starting out on, I've seen it, and I've been down it. Being the way you are, it's only logical that you would too. I know the why, I know the how. But please know that through the test of time, living up to your convictions and bearing the consequences will be excruciatingly tough. It would be a long, arduous, unending climb and there will be a lot of pain along the way. It's not a question of "can" any more. Are you sure you want to?", he said. I leaned forward, smiled quietly, and said the few words that keep me sane in times like these. 

"I've made my choice."

So today, what do I have to complain about? 

Six years ago, I made a choice. And that's that. 

Disquiet.

00:01 AM

On the eve of the day that is today, I happened to pass out rather uncharacteristically at 8 P.M., and woke up right now with the faint realization, that there aren't going to be any sarcastic messages or crisp phone calls at midnight that I would conveniently wince at, ignore, and then forget all about. One, after all, doesn't get that lucky every year, and it's small pleasures we live by. Sure enough, there were none.

And then I dragged myself to this wheezing old reminder of a computer seated on a creaky old reminder of a work-desk, and typed this message. Because like Hemingway advises, one should write drunk, and edit sober. But I never like to leave room for editing. What I have for you, is all of me... unedited. With the erratic margins, errant aligning, and odd handwritten pages- crossings and omissions intact.

After a long time, things have changed. For better or worse, I'm not sure. Because I need to see you, and talk to you. Because I don't know where this is going to take me, a short while from now. Because I miss doing this, and I just might miss it more. Because this just might make you feel the way I want to. Before it's too late.

tragedy now dances (to the tune of dubstep)

*thump* *thump* Three years ago, healing was easy. Sure, it was a fairly arduous trip along the darker edge of the emotional spectrum, but it was foolproof. It was methodical, logical, and calculative. It was as much numbers as it was words. *boop dhee bhoop* Denial, anger, passive-aggression, rationalization, active-aggression, "the volcano", *boop dhee bhoop* de-rationalization, the bargain, more anger, guilt, more anger, re-rationalization,*boop dhee bhoop* self-destruction, burnout, rock-bottom, a little alexithymia, disconnection, "the zoom-out", "the crawl out of the abyss", gravity, the gift of selective memory... and finally, *boop dhee bhoop* the sutures. To come out almost fully-functional, albeit stapled/glued/taped together, wasn't altogether a bad use of one's spare time. An exercise in histrionics, one might say, but certainly not futility. *zeeeee thump* The last time around, healing was pared down to something nearly perfunctory. A straight-up burnout made healing unnecessary. *boom zeeeh boom* To survive, and quickly distance oneself was enough. It was exhaustion, and running out alone into a winter night. It was a comical juxtaposition of Shirley Manson's voice, and a surge of gravely non-comical sentiment. After years of a half-assed effort, it was 15 minutes of silence and a little perspective. That was all. *bheeeeeeeee zooooorrrb* But today, the cold isn't enough, and neither is the night. Even the Manson of the darker variety isn't enough, and a life lived on borrowed time certainly isn't. Healing was never a hard thing to do. The trouble, it seems, was always in wanting to. *thump* *thump* *thump* 

*fades out* 

There is the world, but there is also the view. People sped up, time slowing down. I have a problem. These words of mine always hang in the air, awkwardly. Misplaced in time, misplaced in space. In thought and in action. In the dizzying flux of irrelevance that slows every damn thing down to an insufficiently maddening degree. It's not how it was, not how it was supposed to be. Colloidal rooms, bleary lights, and the suspended pieces of ideas there is simply no point to pulling and holding together with glue and scotch tape. We could never believe it, but some things aren't really meant to be fixed. Torn books, folded into origami swans, tied with strings to the ceiling fan, weaving patterns and words and shadows of insignificant things around. Candles and lamps and the spinning world. Reality is wasted on people like you and things like me. It's too late to salvage much. Sooner or later, there will only be the view. The looking glass and the haze. 

Postmodern Pinfold

tread lightly
speak low

contrivance,
less edacity.

pretend, we can
delude, we shall

and absolve
a life

wasted.

On cynicism, and other disquieting concerns.

They say that a cynic is never surprised. Strange it is, then, that I find myself somewhat confounded by the world, as it has chosen to present itself to me lately. Whether that indicates my having become less cynical or the world having become more confounding, I know not. What I do know, however, is that something is eating away at all social structure and the people that comprise it. It is a form of moral corruption so incredibly pervasive, that once you see it, it's impossible to ignore. 

The more I zoom out and try to view the world from a more privileged(read distant and disconnected) vantage point, the more conspicuous becomes the absence of a grand master plan. The universe, providence and random chance(or whatever else you choose to believe in) have always been indifferent. But now, so are the people. It was just naivete, ignorance, and idiocy before. Now, there is also indifference. The masses are frivolous and fickle. Fickle with their loves, fickle with their hates, fickle with their allegiance, fickle with their belief. Fickle with their ambitions, fickle with their hopes, fickle with their words, and fickle with their needs. With moral codes traded for oblivious languor, and passion for disposable cheap thrills, constancy of purpose is just about the rarest thing one could go about in search of. In a world where every one, every thing, and every idea is dispensable, what does a person place their faith in, anyway?

Now whenever I veer off on this particular tangent, I am accused of mounting the moral high horse. But it's not adherence to a certain code of ethics I advocate, it is the necessity of an individual defining one for himself and living by it. Because in the absence of the same, when perfunctory institutions like religion fail, there would be nothing left to define oneself in terms of. We'd all be jaded and shapeless blobs of indiscernible substance, with no purpose, no identity, and nothing of consequence to call our own. One could argue, that it's already happened. 

Much has been said about the gradual and inevitable decadence of the bourgeois, and the supernumerary cliches that follow. Yet, fully aware of the facts, I so desperately seek people who could pledge their lives to one idea that they stand for, who would make a conscious decision to always live by their word, and who have the courage to fight for the things they believe in. Why are people so scared of investing any substantial part of themselves in anything? I've been told that it's that same cynicism that creeps up on them, leaving them bitter and uncaring. And I am always left to wonder how and why a cynical disposition has come to entail apathy, even towards oneself. 

A wonderful thing it is, to live enough, and love enough,
to run down countless roads, and rush past all the milestones,
to see all these splendid sights, and read all those beautiful words,
to have enough, and lose enough, for several lifetimes. Perhaps more.
The further I go, the more I feel, the more I see, and the more I know, but
bittersweet irony, now the thoughts come fast, and the words... not nearly enough.

Lazarus : Sign

flaws held to bait,
and yet
crippled remain
our minds
and hearts under
the unbearable weight
of all our loves and hate

The Bipolarity Paradox.

If one voluntarily chooses a life of manic depression, where the highs are extra high, and the lows are particularly low, citing the unnatural and overwhelming vividity of all human experience as the motivating factor, and the act of choosing that heightened quality of all emotion over plain old convenience as the guiding rational thought, the following catch-22 situation is fairly inevitable. The erratic behaviour that is a direct result of this disposition will eventually drive away all the people and things that make one happy. However, if it were not for this same disposition, those things would not make one happy enough to want them in the first place.  

Assay,

My problem is that I keep looking for reasons. I always keep asking "Why?". And then I ask "What if?". And then, "What not if?. "Is?", "Isn't?", "Was?", "Could be?", "Could have been?", "Could not have been?", "Can be?", "Can never be?", and so on. For everything that happens, (good, bad or anywhere in the between), for the things that people do or don't do, I keep scouting around, taking things apart, putting them back together in every single permutation and combination, looking for answers. Not just any answers, but good ones. Valid ones, rational ones, fair ones, and logical ones. Because I believe that the world it based on those things, or that at least, it should be. And that being fatalistic is yet another form of the mind's corruption. And that if one is more or less fair in one's own dealings and actions, he can have just the right and equal amount of it back. And that if one always has a justifiable reason for his actions, most actions made towards him must also be justifiable. But as it goes, there might not be a justifiable cause for everything. People are not always rational, logical, or fair, and constancy of purpose is so very rare a virtue, it is disconcerting. Living in a world where it is so unusual and inconvenient to not be frivolous with one's loyalties, is so taxing on everything I hold sacred. I just keep looking for the right answers, when there just might not be any. Because I want so desperately to believe that in the grand scheme of things, everything is fair. So I haunt my problems, instead of it being the other way around. All the world's worth of philosophy tells me that one must stick to their ideals and their premises. My own tells me that it is of paramount importance to place the truth, and the capacity to assess it, above all else. But it now seems to me that the only people who ever survive this life are the ones who learn to evolve. And not just evolve, but do it most rapidly, smoothly, and efficiently. I'm afraid that I've wandered off so far out in search of these answers, that I'm about to fall off the edge of this world that still remains so very square. And yet, there are still no answers to be found.  

Tales of Gain and Loss.

September 1, 2010

10:00 PM

How wonderful a thing it is, to have nothing to lose. Care about nothing. Have nothing, Own nothing. Keep nothing. Only want. And let the "want" define you, in entirety. I miss it.

............................................................

September 1, 2011

1:00 AM

The best thing about my life at the moment, is that it is absolutely unscripted. I have nothing holding me back or keeping me in one place. People, places, jobs, the several institutions you are a part of... they hold you down. Everything you love, holds you down. I love nothing. Thus, I am free.

............................................................