The Mysterious Stranger.

"In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!...You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks - in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier. It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities."
-Mark Twain

What is there to be said if Blake and Twain are indeed correct? Should man be willing to cleanse the doors of perception? To embrace the infinite? And to think all it takes is a thought, the will to be and to see, to abdicate the flesh and mind, to acknowledge and therefore become once again an integral part of the process that unifies and defines existence, the universe and all things confined within it are a process, one long, unwinding skein whose threads disenthrall softly as time marches on.

It is only right to crawl through the narrow chinks of my cavern. It is my most secret nature.

Keep doubting, Etienne.

Plans were made for next week, I will probably write about my experience then. I dare say that I am somewhat excited, best not to spoil it too much.

Soon!

Stay tuned...

Con ganas de nada. Those four words express perfectly my current predicament, I don't even feel like writing anything down about it, you'll just have to take my word for it- it's some sort of profound boredom and illness I have contracted from living, as distasteful as it sounds, I am dreadfully bored with how contrived beauty and even the search thereof is. I'm tired, it's unappealing to me, and it feels terrible, but I know it's right. I feel it dragging me down, but it's keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. I mean I realize it's dehumanizing and alienating, but the predicament itself more strongly lies in the fact that I just don't care. Should that be what bothers me? I'm just banking on the fact that it should be, it's of no particular interest to me anyway.

I suspect there's not much to be done either way, until I wake up one ordinary morning and suddenly all those things that felt artificial to reach for, or to want will no longer seem like so because I will no longer have been looking for it, and while attempting to slip by with the unremarkable flow of the day it'll have clumsily stumbled into my mind. These things are as predictable as sunrise, sunset,


repeat ad infinitum.

The illusion of futility.

An acquaintance of mine and I discussed, rather by accident, the futility of living. Granted the conversation was not nearly as grim as the subject and syntax would invite it to be, but that is neither here nor there. He mentioned something that was particularly interesting which I shall paraphrase (in a more flowery way of course); despite the futility of living and exertion, the end result to which we all render contributions to, whether willingly or otherwise, is entropy. Death itself contributes to the slow disentanglement of the universal fabric, and this got me to thinking that every action we take is a sure conductor to the eventual disarray of all things.

What a horrifying truth it is that every expiration, the triviality of every stroke my fingers dare to cast, the dimensional articulation my body is limited to, such a weak and paltry materiality could ever hope to disturb the universe. Perhaps even more marvelous is the beauty this inherits as it coyly slips between our oblivious hands, the truth hidden within a truth, how tragically and how fascinating does it hide its wonders in plain view, and how envious I am of the learned astronomer as he gazes attentively and with perfect silence, he hears the atoms tell of our secret lives.