Winter is approaching and the cold makes me feel so vulnerable. It's like the chill outside burrows into my heart and pierces my brain with rays of shattering ice. The brain stops operating when ice paralyzes; dreams, hopes, desires, thoughts- all muddled by this insipid ice. The cold is one thing I appreciate at night. It gives slumber to my fantasies and transforms them into something alive- something greater than me. I always wondered if dreams were created by me or were the creators OF me. Life, dreams, hopes- these things are all fuel and yet they are unavailable when you seek them out.
Nothing is certain in a world that's always moving, a brain that's always working and changing (I wish I could say evolving but sometimes the nature of thought seems counterproductive), people and bodies, warmth and darkness always churning and transforming into nothing tangible. Nothing to hold onto, nothing to rely on when the world is spinning most ferociously and the ground beneath our feet quakes as if an imminent disaster is always approaching. There are times when I think the world is one cruel joke; a test in willpower- a test to see if willpower even exists. The thought that will and individuality- the characters of a unique organism- are all merely productions of a changing world and our adaptations to those changes. Is nothing wholly self created? Or is everything?
The answers will never be found, and that is the most frustrating thought of them all. That we strive and fight, muscle, bone, sinew and nails, grinding to the beat of an agitated world, a world in which no answers will ever exist. It's all theory. Life, existence, dreams, myself- theories. Nothing tangible, nothing certain. Words are just words that are also transitory- these thoughts I commit to paper (or in this case a virtual white box) will mean nothing to me in ten minutes. These thoughts will evolve or devolve and then what is left? What is that central core that all of us seek to improve? There is no center, and if there is- it cannot hold.
Magma, fire, raining bullets of ice and shards of glass- the end is the only thing certain. Birth may be a mistake and so may be death- but the only certainty is that both will happen to each and every one of us. The matter we fill the "between" with is what we hold to be important- and yet this matter is constantly being redefined, regretted, held back in order to contain and preserve the matter of the world around us. We cannot be objective, we can only sit idly by and pretend that our words and thoughts mean something. That we as individuals have power. In reality, we are powerless, and thoughts and actions mean nothing more than a ripple over the water. We breathe the air that urges us forward, backward- anywhere from here. We are constantly in motion with the Earth and we too, as the Earth, will never stop until we rest. However long that takes, whatever insights we think we have produced, whatever enlightenment we imagine to have found- these are all merely shadow puppets filling our brains so we don't go insane.
The only certainty is the uncertain, and the only light is in shadow. Grey, mauve, putrid yellow-green, the in-between colors, thoughts, images and flickers of hope. We are grey, each and every one of us- just waiting and striving to fill ourselves with color when color is merely a part of our imaginations. The foundation of all children's stories, the thoughts that produce "the self" are all imposed, confining, restricted products of the world's collective (and masochistic) imagination. When leaves blow from a tree, so too each "soul," each imagined "self" falls to the ground and crumbles from the power of a thoughtless breeze. The world does not think- only we do- and our thoughts too are imbued with the senselessness of the wind. Like a giant tornado ripping towards us at Mache speed, the external body is tight and solid, yet the core is a collapsed cacophony and the worlds' screams and lost hopes.
Fifty more words, but whatever I say is immaterial. What happens when that time is up? Will it have a neat and tidy conclusion? Or will we all be left standing on the verge of a giant chasm, waiting to tear and rip at every thought and dream we have ever deluded ourselves with?
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