Once I wanted to be famous instead of rich. And then I wanted to be rich instead of famous. And now I want to be neither.
Meaning has never been harder to find.
Snow has covered most of the landscape, except for paths where it was plowed or shoveled. What looks pristine from a distance is actually polluted upon closer inspection, and what appears microscopically geometrical is macroscopically chaotic.
Where there is no pattern there is no organization.
I listen to Paul Schwartz's operatic remixes without analyzing why it is so appealing to me. Is it better for a kite to have an intact or broken string?
Has my entire existence been a cosmic farce? Why is that I always become lost and confused about anything and everything?
What is perceived as "my life" is a vacuous virtualization interface that has no physical hardware. Matter is a form of energy, and so everything is energy. Nothing is physical and nothing is real.
And everything is uncertain. I have given up trying to quantify anything, since no precise value is ever obtained.
What used to be my sense of wonder and "child-like" curiosity has been gutted and bleeding slowly for years.
My entire existence suspends in limbo. No reprieve. Maybe I'll reach cosmic understanding when the universe reaches heat death.
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