When all the universe comes crashing back into a single, sucking density;
There at least, we will be whole again.
Sunday 19 April 2009
Wednesday 15 April 2009
A Return to the Familiar
The details of this evening are as follows.
A 25 year old male, quasi-drunk on scotch and water, 16 cigarettes down and finding any excuse not to finish marking the pile of assignments which sits in a disorderly heap on his bed preoccupies himself with fanciful imaginings of a hypothetical romance he's uncertain to the extent of which lies in actual reality.
Thus begins a debate as to the nature of reality.
If reality is an observable fiction which relies upon competing forces in order to determine creation and chaos, then what powers those forces? It would appear to this male that if it is a force of perception, his imaginings are not to be deterred - the mere examining of a thread of thought pushes it squarely into the light of creation, and can thus be used as a stencil from which to fill the colours of his desire. Of course, his thoughts are not the solely determining factors as to whether the romance will sew unto the threads of a reality and pursue a current in livable fiction, but he also knows that in previous circumstances, they generally tend to.
He wonders briefly why this is, then puts it down to luck.
Luck that natural genetics instigate a pleasant living portrait which most others like to view. and luck that he has had the fortune to find life so far mostly amusing, which animates said features in an agreeable manner.
He is sitting on a couch, considering his options when suddenly, he becomes extraordinarily tired with the whole conundrum.
Conversation, desire, want, lack and sex - for what use? The ricocheting communications cause a cacophany of confusion which set the world to rumbling and eventually leave a very sooty mark upon a slate which would be clean if it were not for these amblings. Of course, the point of all this is to learn a lesson, and from the lesson future generations may cleave their own meat to let grow fetid with the maggots of discontent.
And so on, and so on, and so on.
It occurs to the male that his thoughts are particularly cynical. To what extent, he wonders, are they influenced by outside factors? Religious and/or spiritual indoctrinations as to the reliability of thought and the necessity of control spring instantly to mind, which in turn becomes a debate as to how one may assume the arrogance of emptiness in a world which demands engagement.
In all of this, he realises, he has no understanding left.
A 25 year old male, quasi-drunk on scotch and water, 16 cigarettes down and finding any excuse not to finish marking the pile of assignments which sits in a disorderly heap on his bed preoccupies himself with fanciful imaginings of a hypothetical romance he's uncertain to the extent of which lies in actual reality.
Thus begins a debate as to the nature of reality.
If reality is an observable fiction which relies upon competing forces in order to determine creation and chaos, then what powers those forces? It would appear to this male that if it is a force of perception, his imaginings are not to be deterred - the mere examining of a thread of thought pushes it squarely into the light of creation, and can thus be used as a stencil from which to fill the colours of his desire. Of course, his thoughts are not the solely determining factors as to whether the romance will sew unto the threads of a reality and pursue a current in livable fiction, but he also knows that in previous circumstances, they generally tend to.
He wonders briefly why this is, then puts it down to luck.
Luck that natural genetics instigate a pleasant living portrait which most others like to view. and luck that he has had the fortune to find life so far mostly amusing, which animates said features in an agreeable manner.
He is sitting on a couch, considering his options when suddenly, he becomes extraordinarily tired with the whole conundrum.
Conversation, desire, want, lack and sex - for what use? The ricocheting communications cause a cacophany of confusion which set the world to rumbling and eventually leave a very sooty mark upon a slate which would be clean if it were not for these amblings. Of course, the point of all this is to learn a lesson, and from the lesson future generations may cleave their own meat to let grow fetid with the maggots of discontent.
And so on, and so on, and so on.
It occurs to the male that his thoughts are particularly cynical. To what extent, he wonders, are they influenced by outside factors? Religious and/or spiritual indoctrinations as to the reliability of thought and the necessity of control spring instantly to mind, which in turn becomes a debate as to how one may assume the arrogance of emptiness in a world which demands engagement.
In all of this, he realises, he has no understanding left.
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