Wonder why I wonder why?
I am obsessed with death. Wholly and incessantly, in the meantime I am ever-encumbered by thoughts of someone far away from me. I like to think some of this condition is significant of something in the least, though it is not. This much (this state of living) is dross.
The odds of our existence are unfathomable, and still each day we live in such a fashion as to take it all for granted. I am a miracle, the thoughts I think are miracles, each moment I see and think and feel; are all miracles unto themselves. It has dawned on me that this sort of curiosity is the single greatest thing within me, within anybody really. Even now I have as yet failed to come to terms with my mortality– the thought terrifies me- the despair in hours like these is as deafening as it is painfully silent. To live is to lose, to live is to fail, is to fall, is to wonder, is to question, is to ache, and to age and then finally, to lose one last time. This is the lesson to be learned, to be applied to even the meanest of activities in our everyday activities, to do otherwise, is dross.
In light of all this, or perhaps more fitting in spite of the rest of everything else, I love more deeply, more ardently, more sincerely, and more readily than is becoming of every other characteristic which embodies who I am. And for this flaw, I make no apologies; I’ve been through more than enough turmoil to fear the perceived pains of making my feelings known, even as I may be, and am, frequently rebuked. These days are not guaranteed, my next moments even, are not assured to me, and for all that, I know that I have been, and I hope sincerely that I will continue to be. It’s simply a matter of living in the present that seems to be the problem. We love the future for the limitless possibilities it enchants us with, we honor the past as it is the embodiment of everything we’ve done, it is the essence of the excuse we apply to our having been.
And yet somehow, so curiously, we manage to fuck up the present, and I don’t even know what that means, because it’s all my life’s become these last years. My present existence is a thing characterized by moments of absolute euphoria, though they are only seen that way when I reflect on them.
I live fatally within the past, I know this, everything new is profound, and weighs upon my heart with the force of all the angst of a world saddened. I am, and always have been, terrible at hiding my heart, I accept that, I only hope you will not think it a sin to see me as I see myself, though this is no matter, for I would not change me, were it otherwise. For all my rational thinking I am paranoid, for my belief in systems and numbers and odds I am dis-proportionately passionate and overly-emotional. Calculations and statistics being what they are, do nothing to assuage the fears of the heart.
I am eager to understand more, I had hoped I’d have answered this one last question sometime before now. The simple matter of my every mistake tears at me in the most inconvenient of moments, the body of which is the single greatest why I have ever known, no mean feat if you happen to have had the misfortune of speaking of the aesthetics of life with me. Ever before me there are two great questions: one which I will never ask, and one which is simply why, and relates to death, and love, and loss, and emanates in a great circle until it touches every single other thing in my life. Every thought which has ever occurred to me, touches on this why, every feeling I’ve ever had is, I’m sure, important to me because it augments the importance, or the frivolity of why.
And what I mean to say is, do not be afraid to look the fool, have no fear of being thought overly sincere, and never question why you do anything in this life, so long as you’re doing so from the bottom of, and with the whole of your heart. I’ve come to find that there are a great host of things in this world which are truly beautiful, though not readily seen; often times they are painted over with a veneer of sorrow, or marred first by tragedy, and sometimes things beautiful are simply hidden by the confusion which seeps into all aspects of our lives. Sometimes we have to reach beyond what is easy for what is right, and sometimes we must look past hate, if we are ever to see love smiling back at us.
The odds of our existence are unfathomable, and still each day we live in such a fashion as to take it all for granted. I am a miracle, the thoughts I think are miracles, each moment I see and think and feel; are all miracles unto themselves. It has dawned on me that this sort of curiosity is the single greatest thing within me, within anybody really. Even now I have as yet failed to come to terms with my mortality– the thought terrifies me- the despair in hours like these is as deafening as it is painfully silent. To live is to lose, to live is to fail, is to fall, is to wonder, is to question, is to ache, and to age and then finally, to lose one last time. This is the lesson to be learned, to be applied to even the meanest of activities in our everyday activities, to do otherwise, is dross.
In light of all this, or perhaps more fitting in spite of the rest of everything else, I love more deeply, more ardently, more sincerely, and more readily than is becoming of every other characteristic which embodies who I am. And for this flaw, I make no apologies; I’ve been through more than enough turmoil to fear the perceived pains of making my feelings known, even as I may be, and am, frequently rebuked. These days are not guaranteed, my next moments even, are not assured to me, and for all that, I know that I have been, and I hope sincerely that I will continue to be. It’s simply a matter of living in the present that seems to be the problem. We love the future for the limitless possibilities it enchants us with, we honor the past as it is the embodiment of everything we’ve done, it is the essence of the excuse we apply to our having been.
And yet somehow, so curiously, we manage to fuck up the present, and I don’t even know what that means, because it’s all my life’s become these last years. My present existence is a thing characterized by moments of absolute euphoria, though they are only seen that way when I reflect on them.
I live fatally within the past, I know this, everything new is profound, and weighs upon my heart with the force of all the angst of a world saddened. I am, and always have been, terrible at hiding my heart, I accept that, I only hope you will not think it a sin to see me as I see myself, though this is no matter, for I would not change me, were it otherwise. For all my rational thinking I am paranoid, for my belief in systems and numbers and odds I am dis-proportionately passionate and overly-emotional. Calculations and statistics being what they are, do nothing to assuage the fears of the heart.
I am eager to understand more, I had hoped I’d have answered this one last question sometime before now. The simple matter of my every mistake tears at me in the most inconvenient of moments, the body of which is the single greatest why I have ever known, no mean feat if you happen to have had the misfortune of speaking of the aesthetics of life with me. Ever before me there are two great questions: one which I will never ask, and one which is simply why, and relates to death, and love, and loss, and emanates in a great circle until it touches every single other thing in my life. Every thought which has ever occurred to me, touches on this why, every feeling I’ve ever had is, I’m sure, important to me because it augments the importance, or the frivolity of why.
And what I mean to say is, do not be afraid to look the fool, have no fear of being thought overly sincere, and never question why you do anything in this life, so long as you’re doing so from the bottom of, and with the whole of your heart. I’ve come to find that there are a great host of things in this world which are truly beautiful, though not readily seen; often times they are painted over with a veneer of sorrow, or marred first by tragedy, and sometimes things beautiful are simply hidden by the confusion which seeps into all aspects of our lives. Sometimes we have to reach beyond what is easy for what is right, and sometimes we must look past hate, if we are ever to see love smiling back at us.
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