So this is agony. For so long I thought it was physical suffering, over-mothering, having too little for everything, or maybe living with veiled loving… What I have found, is that these are symptoms. The problem is me. My head. My psyche. Thinking is killing me. Reflection is a slow killing poison which I heedlessly keep injecting… Its like a drug. I gotta have it. Gotta watch. Gotta perceive. Gotta know. Gotta ponder it all. See if the taste changes by stickin in my big toe… But what I want is out of reach. One can always gain further understanding, but it is accompanied by mortalizing limits, and stumbling so is there truly anything under me, standing?
I suck in information until my head goes helium, and my eyes roll inside my head. I suck faster, hoping for more… Hoping this straw of balanced interpretation isn’t becoming my Lord. Craving to finally see and to know, and detesting the craving at the same time. It is getting me nowhere, and accomplishing nothing. Yet it is as if I have placed my hand upon a sheet of fly paper… The more I struggle to let it go, the more hopelessly entangled I become. I am it. It is me. Disjunction and I are one. One mind, one aspiration, one doubt, one hope, one trick, one love, one ponder, one package of infinite analysis…
I’m laughing to keep from going mad – or perhaps because of it? – and I know that it’s sad because I’m striving for a covenant, that I know not if it exists, hoping that with all of my intent senses, when it makes an appearance, I won’t miss it. I stay up all night defying sleep to remind myself that my will does have some effect… When I awake, I come correct, wishing for the days end to flex my power once again. I am plagued by things forgotten, things attempted… The outfits of those around me, and their psychological constituents. Often to my detriment. Even chancing that I successfully removed the veil, what then? What purpose is found in pondering and perception? Delirium.
Why so serious? Why not? Everything is material for the agile mind to dance around like hop scotch or hip-hop. Nothing is too minute, and nothing too grand. Everything gets calculated. Everything – or at least as much as I can. Sometimes I move and accomplish things… Make sprints in the direction of my dreams… But then I wonder – is that my dream at all? At which point do most stumble, and which do most stand tall? Probably many are playing it so safe that falling is a near impossibility. I cannot do that willingly, I need some wily nily, a dose of silly, a question like “Really?”, to explode like C4 and see what takes place, to examine my warm and see if it’s chilly.
Flat line… Reflection is a slow killing poison which I heedlessly keep injecting… It kills my activity, but something keeps resurrecting. My feet are glued to the pedal, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
Thinking… Always thinking…
Well when you are alone in this world – what else is a guy to do?