In this world of ours, where one can never keep one’s thoughts straight for more than a fraction of a second until some all-infecting cosmic disaster lay its hands upon your mind and grasp all your thoughts away from you, it is hard to know where we stand. Is it high in the mountains or low in the mountains, be it known that mountains cannot be high or low for they are mere monuments to imperfection. They lay upon fault lines and such with weary wintry nightcaps that seem to bode nothing more than farewell to all who look upon, aging wigs of geology. With what fashion has God created this world that he set up such monuments? It cannot be a true world, else there is no other and this is the final world, for the Truth is the finality and the finality is most indeed static. Buzz. Hear the ever-increasing hum of the everyday, as it soars above the American landscape with triumphant roar, proclaiming its existence in a vacuum so huge that it takes an entire nation to fill it, along with all its accessories of crime, such as media and money and lust and warfare. Warfare and lust. What is the difference? There seems to be an endless contrast of the two, and an interminable existence of these fiends in our world. It is the sight of man that is so short that it cannot bear the weight of wisdom, for as soon as it carries it, it slides off its back like a goosefeather. And so mix I my metaphor, as men mix many a-thing in this world; their emotions, their livelihoods, their race. And what race do we run but that of life? And is this race one that has an end? Or do we like gerbils spin on this cycle till we have exhausted all our revenues of spirits and sit sullenly at the bottom, gazing discontentedly at the above. And I suppose we crawl out for a sip of water, or ale if we have such luxury or misfortune by some men’s measures. Oh, to measure is a man’s, and his alone, for only a creature as stupid as man could devise such a thing as measure. What do we measure, with our instruments and devices? How many steps until our death, how many moments to our demise, which we cannot truly know, but only estimate through observances of man. Observances which lead to nothing but unsavory thoughts and feelings that lead us to think and to drink and by God to pray, for if we not pray than we become prey, and lose that infernal race which so often we do lose by trying to hard to win. We fill ourselves with many things, but it only leaves us emptier at the end if we do not fill ourselves properly. Carnivals and festivals and candy and women. Television and cereal and midnights, with love unrequited, for to love such things is to be a fool, and to be a fool is to be a man. And man is more than what he desires and what he knows, he is what he chooses. He is no more victim than the earth is victim to a pebble which lay upon it. Our perception is our pain, and our pain is our grace, for it is by it that we ascend, and traverse the cycle and death and competition of man. O Victorious Day, when wilt thou come?
Wow. This is wonderful. Such profound thoughts. Tell me, did you write this all in one sitting, one stream of consciousness, or did you go back and edit multiple times. I am in awe of the way the ideas fit together so seamlessly.
i thought you were shallow, but then i fell in deep.
