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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2229890-Test
Rated: E · Other · Other · #2229890
Just something
I am gazing into the infinite void. All around me is empty and still, yet only for a moment within a dream of eternity, as an unspeakable variety of activities and processes keep this world moving at a merciless rate. Voices emerge from the distance, from unspecified sources and of questionable intentions. Their details serve only as superficial symbols of identity, defined by function, inclination, and differing forms of personal investment. Someone makes a remark in a tone of endorsement, and it feels like everything stops. A random yet dreadfully routine question is asked concerning place of origin, allegiance, or identity. Ambiguous glances the only available response. I have lost the meaning of words, forgotten my voice. The things they say…vague attempts to frame experience and identity. Some say nothing and express their desperation through fabrications of themselves. Some align their positions with established agendas, desperate for some measure of positive distinction. Still others invest their energies in diverse methods of escape at all costs. The illusion of safety seems to grant them an imagined position of questioning judgment. All frequencies operate as sources of distraction and manipulation. Philosophical systems reduced to bumper stickers. They echo these simplified sentiments with enthusiasm while faithfully performing a function dictated by a system built on exploiting ruthlessly fundamental conditions of need and desire. Time seems to stop, all actions and elements seem to cease and withdraw. I wander through halls of potential experience. All these possibilities framed by the same method of presentation, yet with wildly different levels of quality. What is going on? They move faster and recklessly towards satisfactions of desire disguised as need, slaughtering each other in the process under the presumption of legalized procedure. If it’s a life you want, you better be willing to kill yourself for it. Show just enough fake concern to make it seem like you’re really engaged. Position and rank are meaningless when death closes in. Cruel seductive voices sing haunting melodies, coldly taunting fragile mortality. Everything has stopped again, and a disagreeable aura permeates the vicinity. They come and go from many directions and in many guises. They derive identity from particulars upheld as universals.


The final visions of twilight reflect off the frozen river, like the rays from a watchtower looking for the castaway. I am but a gloomy fog of mental projections, projecting nothing but faded memories and vain introspections, declining towards the abyss once thought to be a magical valley of beautiful dreams; just far enough to free myself from the enchantment of the eternal sea, each lunar-swathed drop of water removing the universal purpose of my struggle and foreboding the arrival of strange realms in the loss of all illumination and substance. In the swarming blackness, forests and rivers disappear from my sight when I believe in their reality, and appear again just when I accepted their extinction, as images of star systems glide over my pathway. I am nothing but a pawn in a losing game, fulfilling a role that has been played countless times by others in this infinite comic drama, joyful conclusions of self-narrated tales, echoed in the universal order of chaos.


but we do know at least that we merely unknowable fragments, impure and dying every second, pale reflections, hollow ephemera passing through a timeless nothingness.


Darkness swarms, as I flee to futile shores of vanquished desperation. Emptiness consumes my breath, and not even the memory of all that was can assure me with any certainty that any of this was real.


awake to universal realizations of infinity. memories like unending waves. my only response is further endorsement of futility. increase awareness at the cost of functionality, associated decrease of tangible interest. the fragmentation was of something significant at its purest form. reflection may discover the source, but will it change anything? unlikely, and if this process continues, the mounting questions will be met with even more non-answers. release essence into the vast all-consuming, that which manifests, that which destroys. perceive noumenon in dreamlike visions, cross the threshold into another dimension. illusion of multiplicity, adherence of absurdity. intentions asserted in opposition to cosmic order, which rejects barriers as a natural condition of the quest for the void. when determinism exposes deliberation as a mockery of self-created destiny, in silent departure we search in vain for discrepancies. no choice but to surrender to the misconception, no hope of outlasting the present moment.


We look forward to sleep not because it will bring us rest for the coming day, but because we long to return home, to the oblivion from which we were unwillingly thrust into this wearisome existence. Sleep offers us a brief retreat into this oblivion. It cannot be enjoyed like other events we anticipate, it is only longed for. Every sleep is a foretaste of death, the death that calls us back to the nothingness from which we came.


Displaced wanderers, our only true destiny is an eternity of dreamless sleep. Realization of this condition leads to the ultimate awareness of our essence, of what it means for beings such as we to live and die in a world such as this.


What is this anxious impulse to rewind and stop, to leave this conflict, to reduce what has the potential to expand? Reflections chase their source, yet lead our investigations. Are there directions showing how to design the directions of the future? In this subterranean realm of archaic contemplation, I apprehend the flames as temporary acquisition of warmth and illumination, the origins of which is revealed in its external effects.


We fade along with our assigned designations, past our thoughts, beyond our horizons, an error never to be corrected. We keep our secrets as the world unleashes its chaos. Our reflections will soon disappear, but I must leave this thought behind and never again return. A shadow has followed me all along this journey. It has been anticipating my awareness. It wants me to contemplate the dimensions of silence.


The traces of this time, symbols on the universal clock, strike like a dagger through the heart of the world. Azure designs drift through the penumbra. The birds take flight above the gleaming mountains, directed to the vast oceans of sparkling luminosity. Every creature moves with impulsive rhythmic motion through the deep night, desperately trying to survive the catastrophe of life. Formless images appear on the distant landscape of this primal fantasy. The objects we toss up into the sky are sent back down to us, rejected for their disturbance of the cosmic aesthetic. The world is changing, its surfaces mistaken for wounds in need of treatment. We are the wounds of this vacant realm. Nevertheless, we exist within a prison of our own making, in a time that is nothing in the expanding infinity, burning in the scorching flames of vanity.


The degradation was a destiny like any other. These things are a matter of time and distance, unknown and unacceptable on every level. One can hope for something more, something less, or nothing at all. One can deny hope as a mockery of a living nightmare. Either way, the void consumes all.



Lost in a fading dream beheld in the void of annihilation, where in the last moments of awareness emerges the realization that we were all ephemeral phantoms in a world that never was.


In the heart of the day the wound of the earth reminds our egos of the eternal unchanging reality of all things. From sunny shore to frozen fields, from the warm rays of the nourishing sun to the cold purity of the winter moon.


I defy the substance and validity of their knowledge, their capacity for detailed explanations, their obsession with personality and characterization, their exalted self-prescribed obligation to encourage and support, and their honorable ethics of positive reinforcement. I vomit black blood and the poison of my soul on the common vanity of their blind optimism.


They don't observe because they cannot see. They cannot see because they don't know how to see. They look at everything at once, but looking is not the same as seeing. My universal skepticism denies all faith and rejects all appeals to a cold and indifferent universe. They take everything at face value and strive ever onwards for some hopeless utopia, and I take no action, I remain silent and still, and take no part in the world's collective endeavor. Do not listen to me, and please do not speak. Leave me among the ruins of shattered dreams, to dwell on how closer I am to death than ever before.


think of the courtship of birds, of mammals, the display of beauty sometimes feminine, sometimes masculine. think of seduction, the wonder of preparing a nest, the wonder of the fruit of union, for generations and generations. how sad this scorned and vulgarized sexuality. if we make sexuality so poor, the victory of thanatos, the sense of death, will be inevitable
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