- 10:53 pm
the greatest inspiration is often found in hours of deepest grief and closest solitude; for when there is satisfaction, when there is enough; there is no need to think, no need to reconsider the nature of being because being is all that remains important. but in a world where everything eventually ceases to be - there are ends. and there are ends.
in an open field of nothingness, there is a point; a black singularity containing all the possibilities of the world. there is no sound, there is no light; until now. it is coming from the singularity.
from within the expansive confines of the point emanates a silver light; and a line extends from within its mass, engulfing, devouring, becoming- it. it that is no-longer-a-point, but not quite yet a fully grown line. it stretches outwards, on to infinity, terminating at the horizon. and creation is born.
i am writing against the lines. my words do not follow their ordered structure but break through the rigidity to what is beyond. but if the lines are creation, then surely what is beyond must be of our own creation? i am going solo from here. there remains precious little choice after all, unless you turn back, mend your walls and try to stay within.
no.
sometimes you gotta wonder how different things coulda been. what if i hadn't/what if i hads are time consuming and onerous, especially since time only allows for i wills and i will nots whilst death only leaves space for the wills because the I is gone. where to remains the subject of much debate but lets all hope its either sugarcandy mountain or that place in baywatch. theyre both good places to be since anyways after a few weeks of high living and rich food temptation islands probably gonna have to reinvent itself as 'nudist-colony-for-the-morbidly-obese island'. these things, i see in the future.
the line branches out in several directions; but some of them terminate in a silvery haze of unanswered questions. the rest stretch on to the horizon, always just out of sight but not quite out of mind. questions that come with the rainclouds in hours of solitude are never actually looked for. what if we'd met 8 years ago? what if we weren't so alike/different? what if we'd never spoken?
what if?
to live with a large degree of raw sincerity and purity is the highest tribute one can offer to the soul. to recognise what is that is and not to force change or put up shows where none are needed. to be.
its almost evening. the leaden sky casts a dull gray pallor about the land; it is unlike the brilliantly glorious sunsets i have grown used to. a fine rain drizzles down, drops of water rushing down to meet the earths embrace as if upset at having been parted for so long. for there are partings and returns, but they are the separations that linger longest in the memory. for the inability to understand or comprehend the circumstances surrounding our current situation is what makes us all too fallibly human; but human we are, and in humanity's name we suffer.
there is a part of the person hidden away carefully in each of us to prevent the simulmacrums we project in our illusory world from tripping up over our selves. it is what is unknown, what is not found, what we seek.
no more.
time to burn.
fin