Some people.

Some people are so beautiful they look like they are constructed from foreign particles.
Some people appear in pictures like divine revelations appear to preachers.
Some people look at the camera knowing full well what they do and who they are.
Some people do not.
Some people are as pretty as grass.
Some people have wide eyes and crooked smiles, but they're still dreaming in lucidity.
Some people wave their hands, some often don't.
Some people pretend it's a surprise, they never want to spoil the fun of life.
Some people carry with them the baggage of a lifetime of loneliness.
Some people look as light as air.
Some people look even lighter still, like neutrinos from the sun.
Some people just don't appear in pictures.
Some people don't want to be seen, no matter how contradictory it might seem to be outside and not wanting to be seen.
Some people just blend into the background.
Some people stare bewildered like several thousand girls galore.
Some people pretend to make of themselves small bits and pieces of art.
Most people are incomprehensible and irascible works of art.


I have an ugly smile and I hate getting my photograph taken.

-

I never want to have children, it is the most dishonest, hypocritical action I could ever take. I can't live knowing I'm propagating something as wretched and beautiful as existence, it would eat me up inside, it would tear me open more than it does now. I can't make the decision for anyone else, I don't want to do this.

No gods or kings.

"Nothing changes you—you change yourself. You are the ever-chugging power plant of life, the lonely light of reason in a howling, barren universe. It begins and ends with you—the outcome, the tally, the score.

You're foremost and final, arbiter and adjudicator, Pygmalion and clay rolled into one.

Your choices shape reality.

Our fathers' fathers learned how to be human through the agony of spear & sword, of steel and lead, of wounds and burns. Our mothers' mothers learned how to be human through the travail or birth and death, of fields and stocks, of steam and grime. The blood of survivors and killers, of explorers and inventors boils inside you.

Question being: now what?"

Because distraction eases the heart, I refer to the mind for freedom, as temporary as it may be.

Truth has been thought of as intransigent from times immemorial, but reality holds no place for any dictum or truism, everything comes apart at the seams at one point or another. Consider the following: truth exists only in the material, the unconscious altruism that builds everything up like a byzantine church. Truth is not, however, a property of matter, it arises as a result of the lack of distortion, matter is what it is always without the façade of a constructed sense or even delusion of being (being is also not an inherent property of matter, but I believe we've spoken enough about that subject to get a clear idea of my whacked out interpretation of it). An electron is an electron in itself but a point particle in function; a man is a man, an expression of matter, or the (limited) culmination thereof, but a provider, a criminal, a hero, a coward, a victim, so on and so forth, in function. The state of affairs is often thought of as immutable, and I would have, at one point, been tempted to consider it as such myself, still an important actor interjects with sublime grace, being unnoticed but at the same time often despised for its rapturous arrival, though invisible, felt in the marrow of our bones with chilling consequence. Ostensibly beached upon the shores of indifference because its place in reality is forever assured while ostentatiously disregarding affection for all things it touches, and it does touch all things. I am speaking about time, of course. Time is the constant that makes all things, all matter inconstant. From a sociological standpoint it has always been ontological in nature, given to the throes of moral and evolutionary relativity, but from a scientific standpoint it has always been a tautological matter: truth is simplified and reduced to the point where it loses its meaning, and not just its meaning, but its reason to be. When truth is reduced to a property of something then it becomes a a transient characteristic that is easy to overlook, there is no real struggle for truth at that point, it is there for cosmetic purposes. Time then has done us a monumental favor in its unconscious consequence, truth changes. Truth changes with the entropic ferocity that all matter, at even the most basic of levels, changes. Truth, the state of affairs, will always change as long as time remains inherent and intrinsic to the tapestry of the fabric of reality; these atoms that I have the audacity to call mine, to attach them to my ever-fleeting consciousness, are ever-changing. As a result, so am I. I believe this to be the connection between the ontological (in social terms) and the tautological (in natural terms).

It occurs to me that the struggle for truth and understanding is irrational because it relies on our own existence, not only that, but it needs of our perceptive ability to exist, bear in mind that this is a referential problem that should always be marked by a frame of reference of the conscious juxtaposed with the unconscious, of what is because it is and what is because it's made to be.

excess, excess, excess.

My heart fails me and I have no words.
As Wittgenstein said: "What we cannot speak of must be passed over in silence."

I am no better than Ezra

"I am lonesome after mine own kind and ordinary people touch me not!"