Aug 2016
Procrastination is the fundamental definition of what it means to be human.
Reality isn't patterns of phenomena perceived as such in accurate fashion; it's a collection of loosely coupled mind hacks that cut corners around certain blargh redundancies that need not apply. why? in order to create create create.
This is true fitness, in evolutionary terms:
to out-lazy Neanderthal, and in doing so grow an imagination which could then - by simply lying down in the grass and gazing up at that lingering monochrome blue sky, with cicadas thrumming, smells of summer bursting saccharine - engage the senses at a glance; and without even knowing it, effortlessly bring about the very notion of the wheel, or fire or propulsion systems of rocketry that will bring us home, from scar to star again.
Luxuriating in the elimination of the quotidian reasserts the ability to imagine something other, something stranger, something so utterly complex that it squares itself and leaps exponentially forward like weird origami in pirouetted flux.. You know that feeling when you surprise yourself and do something epic? That. This is novelty at its finest. This is not just another life living. This is worth rolling out of bed for. That is worth the thousands small paper cuts wielded by -their- ordinary.
.. Of course, this hypothesis is completely bias, because I am almost pathologically procrastinatory. I'd rather write or space out or listen to a YouTube lecture on tree consciousness or supersymmetry or whatever..
The usual day without hiccup bores me to death; no, it scares me to the point of whispering death wishes out into the ether. I fear it like nothing else. Tasks? No. Obligations? Noooope. Running errands? How about I melodramatically run this sword through me first? I'm exaggerating of course, but kinda not really that much.
I'm horribly afraid of being known through and through, made simple, like an amoeba microscoped or a god put in a book. I'd rather not be reduced to maintaining widgets for the financial suits who rock cuff links which eclipse the GDP of Somalia, thanks.
I feel like bliss -is- somewhere out there in the void, like a blank white page with a blinking indigo cursor, full of potential, just waiting to be written on; rather than some subject of some religion or some subject of some state, waiting to be written down.
I feel like there's so much work to be undone, and so little infinity.
Reality isn't patterns of phenomena perceived as such in accurate fashion; it's a collection of loosely coupled mind hacks that cut corners around certain blargh redundancies that need not apply. why? in order to create create create.
This is true fitness, in evolutionary terms:
to out-lazy Neanderthal, and in doing so grow an imagination which could then - by simply lying down in the grass and gazing up at that lingering monochrome blue sky, with cicadas thrumming, smells of summer bursting saccharine - engage the senses at a glance; and without even knowing it, effortlessly bring about the very notion of the wheel, or fire or propulsion systems of rocketry that will bring us home, from scar to star again.
Luxuriating in the elimination of the quotidian reasserts the ability to imagine something other, something stranger, something so utterly complex that it squares itself and leaps exponentially forward like weird origami in pirouetted flux.. You know that feeling when you surprise yourself and do something epic? That. This is novelty at its finest. This is not just another life living. This is worth rolling out of bed for. That is worth the thousands small paper cuts wielded by -their- ordinary.
.. Of course, this hypothesis is completely bias, because I am almost pathologically procrastinatory. I'd rather write or space out or listen to a YouTube lecture on tree consciousness or supersymmetry or whatever..
The usual day without hiccup bores me to death; no, it scares me to the point of whispering death wishes out into the ether. I fear it like nothing else. Tasks? No. Obligations? Noooope. Running errands? How about I melodramatically run this sword through me first? I'm exaggerating of course, but kinda not really that much.
I'm horribly afraid of being known through and through, made simple, like an amoeba microscoped or a god put in a book. I'd rather not be reduced to maintaining widgets for the financial suits who rock cuff links which eclipse the GDP of Somalia, thanks.
I feel like bliss -is- somewhere out there in the void, like a blank white page with a blinking indigo cursor, full of potential, just waiting to be written on; rather than some subject of some religion or some subject of some state, waiting to be written down.
I feel like there's so much work to be undone, and so little infinity.
