Jan 2015
You know how when you are eating oatmeal and it suddenly hits you that you are super full? You wanna finish it but you just can't.
And because of this, you sort of just take your spoon and mindlessly scoop up a heap of oatmeal only to then kinda twirl it around in your fingers and watch -mesmerized- anticipating the oatmeal's breach, its last hoorah over the edge of the spoon, like when you first chance a look past the warmly lit scaffolding of language, only to peer into a lidless unflinching abyss where the wires of "justice" or "truth" or "god" or "father" don't actually plug into anything really, dangling over a cliff to who-knows-where, and, after losing not only a staring contest but also meaning and purpose itself, you watch the oatmeal splat into your bowl?
Well maybe it's not that melodramatic but you get me right? You start to play with your food..
Well, that is kinda how I feel sometimes -- like unwanted excess oatmeal creeping over the edge of a spoon.
I mean, not to sound annoyingly existential, but, really, what's the point? I guess I could run that errand that I totally need to run but, ya know, entropy.
I mean I guess I could get out of bed and make something of myself but -really- I'm already half-dead. I'm 32. The average life expectancy for a male is 68.5 years old. I am nearing that halfway mark, slowly but surely. The bottom of the bowl awaits splat
That old saw plays over and over inside my head: we are all going to die; cease being here; away forever. It is a mindfuck. We all pretty much have a preexisting condition of not-yet-dead --- and even with Obamacare that **** still will **** you dead.
Read the fine print of life and you'll find: "um your molecules will start to **** soon, sorry"
Like an ocean tide, we come and go and no feelings will change that.
The final It does not care - it just does, and then does not.
So, what's the point? Might as well say **** it..
But life.
But sunshine, a sudden warm glow of heat after the sun peers out from a passerby cloud amid a half-eaten blueberry sky. But the wonders of reflection, deep dives into the mind, delving, creative spurts gushing. But the rush of accomplishment of a simple stupid errand that you stupidly procrastinated over. But the big ******* to shoulda's when you get **** done. But the gradual respect of fear, not giving into it but not running away from it, facing up to it, going through it, letting it have it's say and do its worst, letting it teach you. But ***, really ******* good *** where you *** so ******* hard it makes you laugh out loud afterward cos you can't even believe that such a feeling could ever exist. But the being OK about the tears that don't come, that elusive big cry that as a child made you feel like a renewed self, purged from the fires of this strange new world you were still getting used to; and now made all better, brand new, scrubbed, ready to go again, ready to play. But the nostalgia from something as small as a smell, stabbing you so perfectly that you could swear you were back there.
And because of this, you sort of just take your spoon and mindlessly scoop up a heap of oatmeal only to then kinda twirl it around in your fingers and watch -mesmerized- anticipating the oatmeal's breach, its last hoorah over the edge of the spoon, like when you first chance a look past the warmly lit scaffolding of language, only to peer into a lidless unflinching abyss where the wires of "justice" or "truth" or "god" or "father" don't actually plug into anything really, dangling over a cliff to who-knows-where, and, after losing not only a staring contest but also meaning and purpose itself, you watch the oatmeal splat into your bowl?
Well maybe it's not that melodramatic but you get me right? You start to play with your food..
Well, that is kinda how I feel sometimes -- like unwanted excess oatmeal creeping over the edge of a spoon.
I mean, not to sound annoyingly existential, but, really, what's the point? I guess I could run that errand that I totally need to run but, ya know, entropy.
I mean I guess I could get out of bed and make something of myself but -really- I'm already half-dead. I'm 32. The average life expectancy for a male is 68.5 years old. I am nearing that halfway mark, slowly but surely. The bottom of the bowl awaits splat
That old saw plays over and over inside my head: we are all going to die; cease being here; away forever. It is a mindfuck. We all pretty much have a preexisting condition of not-yet-dead --- and even with Obamacare that **** still will **** you dead.
Read the fine print of life and you'll find: "um your molecules will start to **** soon, sorry"
Like an ocean tide, we come and go and no feelings will change that.
The final It does not care - it just does, and then does not.
So, what's the point? Might as well say **** it..
But life.
But sunshine, a sudden warm glow of heat after the sun peers out from a passerby cloud amid a half-eaten blueberry sky. But the wonders of reflection, deep dives into the mind, delving, creative spurts gushing. But the rush of accomplishment of a simple stupid errand that you stupidly procrastinated over. But the big ******* to shoulda's when you get **** done. But the gradual respect of fear, not giving into it but not running away from it, facing up to it, going through it, letting it have it's say and do its worst, letting it teach you. But ***, really ******* good *** where you *** so ******* hard it makes you laugh out loud afterward cos you can't even believe that such a feeling could ever exist. But the being OK about the tears that don't come, that elusive big cry that as a child made you feel like a renewed self, purged from the fires of this strange new world you were still getting used to; and now made all better, brand new, scrubbed, ready to go again, ready to play. But the nostalgia from something as small as a smell, stabbing you so perfectly that you could swear you were back there.
