Misc. Thoughts

{Apparently this didn’t post last night like I thought it did, so here it is for reals, yo.}

 

You grab and grab and grab and try to get all that you can, and nothing ever works; nothing ever makes you happy.  You see what you desire, and you want it.  But even as you want it, you can see past it.  And it all feels so FAKE.  So insipid, so soulless.  Your body wants it, your soul knows it does not, but you am weak; the body squeaks and squeals far louder than the soul when displeased, and so you listen to it, and later despair, for the body has no mind, nor heart.

I see men who are trying as hard as they THINK they can, but have never been forced to try any harder.  And with them, I see men who are shackled to a past rife with complications and trouble; men who every day wish to break those shackles and start afresh, but the key has long since been lost.  They are bound to a past that does not work for them, and allies whom will not work.  What does a man do, when he has no good options, and all the options he has left are as bad as the one next to it?  Does he give up?  Does he pick the lesser of many evils?  Or does he try to find the good option hiding in the aether?

 

I desire the best.  I seek the best.  And sometimes, I see the best.  Though it has been so long since I have seen it, I know it by name, by sight, by touch.  Here, I find the best.  And yet…  Is the best of the worst still any good?  Can I separate the good from the bad and save what is worth saving, or does the bad cling to it like a rash, like an oily film that will sully my hands when I pick it up?  Like the poet, am I looking for love in all the wrong places?  But a poet will say anything that comes to him, whether it be true or not.  I would like to think that true love could be found in any place, under any circumstances.  True love is not about what others see and believe, only what YOU see and believe.  And yet…  If they will not, or CANNOT love you back, it is all meaningless.

 

The curse of bloat.  A world, burdened with too much, and more is constantly forced upon it.  It is bulky, and cumbersome.  When it was young, and its load light, carrying it was a simplicity.  But now, as the mass balloons, how can it hope to balance the weight?  If it shifts to this side, that side slumps, and no matter how it lifts its legs, some neglected portion always drags in the dirt.  Why must it suffer so, and who continues to stack the pile higher on its back?

 

You are special, just like everyone else, and thus in the eyes of man you are not special, for mankind is blind.  Everything you have done, someone has done better before you, and everything you will do, someone will do better after you.  You try to stand out by being the best at what everyone else is doing, but because everyone is doing it you are lost in the crowd.  And to do what no one else is doing is hard, and dangerous, and frightening.  You think, why risk death for glory when you could be safe, and glory is not your to have in the first place?  And so you are not special, not because you tried and failed, but because you never tried.  You are not special, not because the world is stacked against you, but because the world tells you it is stacked against you, and you believe it.

 

Those that say I think too much, have never truly thought themselves.  If they had thought, they would know what thinking feels like.  They would know the understanding which thought brings, and once known, it cannot be unknown.  I cannot, and I will not, go back to the time before thought.  I want to know what things are, what things TRULY are, because with knowledge comes truth, and what sane man would reject truth for ignorance, for a placebo?  I would rather be disappointed by much and know the truth, than be disappointed by little and know nothing.  Those that know the truth will not be troubled when the seas rage and the earth heaves around them, but those without knowledge will have only confusion; they will ask questions they should have asked long ago, and shout to an empty sky for answers.  The acquisition of knowledge only comes during a time when fools revel in a life of ease, and the value of knowledge is only appreciated by fools when there is no longer any time to acquire it.

 

{Every single one of these is inspired from the same juvenile source, and if I told you what that source was this would all seem very silly.  Just as the Lord worketh in mysterious ways, so does inspiration come from the most unlikely of places.  And even if the place has no worth, the inspiration which comes from it DOES have worth.}

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