Of all the things that have been seen before in lithe and kaleidoscopic function and fashion, what is it that motivates you? Have you seen The Thing? Do you know the answer for what The Thing even is? The first time I wrote about emptiness was at 16 and I am 23 now. Soon, I will be 24. One must question after a certain point if their emptiness was self-imposed to thrust upon them as an examination of their material surroundings after that. Maybe it is meant to be this way: key drive to purpose. Humbert Humbert says that it was his dream to wish upon a nymph once more and for Melville, the nymph becomes his own manhood. I wonder often at length, how they saw the wheel turn. Did they see The Thing too?
When we break life down into its teleological characteristics we find hexagons everywhere. The six sided die that shapes the world as a heuristic of its own creation. Honeycombs and carbon and graphite and survival rest on this six sided throw of a six sided die that shapes our world. There's sixes everywhere to see. Six times a day I wonder as to the tenacity of my own failures and my own opaque desires that are just beyong my reach. I cried to a video of a Japanese girl exploring India for the first time and Anthony Bourdain holding a child this morning. Does it just take time? Does understanding come forthwith with its own patience? Do they see The Thing too?
The Thing is control and dominion over the surroundings after you reduce complex phenomena down to its basest components. I live not out of desire but a casual patience for hope that the road eventually leads to enlightenment. I work as a consultant most days and ignore my job for the rest. I am so jealous of you: he lampoons over us. I wish that I had worked harder with more purpose and care and intention. You still do not do this however. Hopefully, I can learn from you and make you proud enough to see me one day.
You already see me as human. It's more difficult for me to do that. The economy isn't doing so hot right now either way and I need to finish pontification on the economy. I wish I had the energy or the mental stratification to write more complex and better pieces of the world. As the days pass, I truly wonder if I am becoming a more vulgar human. Owing it all to my base pressure yet moving without any purpose. It is hurtful to the human body to be like that. There's research I would like to post but I have research on nothing.
I would like to read more. I would like to know the epistemology of the world. Economics, history, psychology, science, art, fiction, philosophy. There's a million pieces of reasoning that interest me to understand why the world is the way that is from my palace on the 19th floor bloviated by gig-delivery food workers. Sometimes I leave my house in disgust of my own body. HE is but an object of nothing. As blank as a white sheet of paper with no lines printed on it and as plain as a font without serif marks. He has long proposed and played with the idea that He is a nothing person. The thought struck him first when he was 16, now 7 years ago, and has consistently permeated and trickled itself down since then. He has done a few things in the last few years, maybe even accomplished something. But he can't help wonder if someone else could have done more in my place. From a point of cold objectivity, He has been a waste of breath, energy, thought, and even more importantly, capital. He is a nothing person because he have always been a nothing person and will continue to be that way. All he can do is daydream about a better world that he could create but do nothing above it. He cannot rise above my own circumstances. Hitherto, the hero exclaims, "What was the point of teenagerhood? Was it just a cry for love much like Radiohead's Creep?" And here we must force ourselves to grapple, was Love the answer to His problems?
He has often attempted to change himself in the past in the grand effort to be loved. He has changed how he has walked, talked, spoken, speaks, walks, talks, and chooses to interact with the world everyday. He has given himself to the callousness of faith: but would it be the one that helps him out in front of the mirror. He looks at himself; if only "I" was taller, if only I was more beautiful, if only "I" was perfect, I could be loved truly in all its entirety. He knew he was irrational in the way he saw things and called into his question his own insecurities. He would like to be like the sun but he can't. He's been sentenced to pay witness to his own slow degradation and devolution. He just wishes that he wasn't hideous. He can't bear to look at the mirror most days in case he says a crop of his disappear from where it used to be. He is everything and every part of something no one wants. No one worth having for him anyway. He hates himself in all facets of being and is survived only by the will of his parents. He wishes he could change so bad. He wants to change so bad and doesn't know how to. It happened 7 years ago and it will happen again. He wishes he could kill himself everyday, it's obvious that he's peaked. If he makes it to 30, will this happen again? How much water can a cup hold before it spills?
I take comfort in the fact that no one would ever read this piece of writing thus allowing me the luxury to be authentic. Maybe it's kindness that he's looking for. Much like the one comment left by someone on his blog all those years ago that he can still remember. Maybe it's not. I want to see The Thing. I want to think The Thing. I want to become The Thing. Maybe its just the hope that the void swallows him whole one day.