They're getting fatter and stupider you know. They're getting fatter and stupider by the minute. They breath and enervate. They breathe and eat the fat which clogs the brain. My, how they grow: guts stealing mass from brain.
Soon we won't be able to grow, you know. We'll have taken all the space up. Soon we won't be able to go any further than our doors, lest we walk through another's doors. Each half an ounce of mass in the brain is equivalent to limitless activity, yet only makes fifty pounds of fat and flesh. We'll be big we will! We'll fill in our door frames, expand our tubs we will, we'll will our influence on the bruised universe.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
With Three Weeks Left
Before college, I ran an angsty Myspace blog which less than subtly described my laggard disposition. I like to believe the music I was listening to was the real epicenter of my writing, with a few sophomoric sentences thrown about to mask my boring days. College changed that habit of mine, albeit marginally; I shut down the first blog, started this one up, and appeared here as frequently as an eclipse masks the sun. I blame The Way of Heaven, for what can I possibly give you, reader, but only that which is communicable? I can't write love, I can't write l'oeuvre.
I'm a college senior now, and in spite of the advising and direction and inspiration and... I come back to November: Father's birthday, Thanksgiving, the semester closing darkly. I am again drawn to dualism and weigh my thoughts heavily on consciousness and existentialism. It's all hypersensitivity, really: I can look out in the murk, see Oneonta shining like a power grid, and despite its flaccid streets I am enamored, in love with nothing at all.
Perhaps its the notion of the heart of an arctic crystal, which I wrote about approximately the same time two years ago. My how so little changes; I am enervated again, awakened to the teetering equilibrium of failure.
I'm a college senior now, and in spite of the advising and direction and inspiration and... I come back to November: Father's birthday, Thanksgiving, the semester closing darkly. I am again drawn to dualism and weigh my thoughts heavily on consciousness and existentialism. It's all hypersensitivity, really: I can look out in the murk, see Oneonta shining like a power grid, and despite its flaccid streets I am enamored, in love with nothing at all.
Perhaps its the notion of the heart of an arctic crystal, which I wrote about approximately the same time two years ago. My how so little changes; I am enervated again, awakened to the teetering equilibrium of failure.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Il y a quatre jours...
As of this publishing, I can safely say that the conscious among our western world has embraced the start of a new year. January first, despite being one of the coldest and darkest days of the year, cruxes the holidays, relinquishing within us the arcane anxieties that well up within humanity during our tribulation. Though I can't speak for everyone, I sense a sort of reverence or austerity in today. Despite the noise and nature of our gathering, watching the snows swirl in a menagerie of light wuthering in the capital region reassured a good end and beginning to the years.
Honestly, a lot has happened this year, and retrospection keeps popping in and out of perspective. I tried to push myself this year, and succeeded, from skipping classes to read a poem, to periodically changing the language of my keyboard to force myself to relearn to type. My grades were mediocre, and more the representative of my inability to focus on even the hedonist pleasures. Christmas was pleasant this year, though I think this might have only been in comparison to everyone else's subdued nature.
It's interesting that in this decade we embraced the rise and fall of multiple sectors of the economy, continued to murder across the globe for the health of the state, and lived in a time of incoherence in art and literature. I lost my childhood, had my adolescence; lost my adolescence, and stuck myself between ages. Music continues on a downward spiral of productivity and sales, and the merchants of cool have a tighter grip on the world than the forces that bind it.
Life may very well be a tragic, inevitably dead existence, that much I've learned from this decade, and from the microcosms that continue to unfold; but as I sit spaced from riding home, daydreaming of cryptographs and protractors, death feels further away than the columns of the Sahara. Four days ago, my sky darkened, and was still alive to the lights and sounds of the great final civilization. So here we are, hurtling toward the darkness as a great comet bowing closer to the sun, and back again into the darker three quarters. May we grow our tastes, and appreciate not the watery blathering of bureaucrats. Enjoy your year!
Honestly, a lot has happened this year, and retrospection keeps popping in and out of perspective. I tried to push myself this year, and succeeded, from skipping classes to read a poem, to periodically changing the language of my keyboard to force myself to relearn to type. My grades were mediocre, and more the representative of my inability to focus on even the hedonist pleasures. Christmas was pleasant this year, though I think this might have only been in comparison to everyone else's subdued nature.
It's interesting that in this decade we embraced the rise and fall of multiple sectors of the economy, continued to murder across the globe for the health of the state, and lived in a time of incoherence in art and literature. I lost my childhood, had my adolescence; lost my adolescence, and stuck myself between ages. Music continues on a downward spiral of productivity and sales, and the merchants of cool have a tighter grip on the world than the forces that bind it.
Life may very well be a tragic, inevitably dead existence, that much I've learned from this decade, and from the microcosms that continue to unfold; but as I sit spaced from riding home, daydreaming of cryptographs and protractors, death feels further away than the columns of the Sahara. Four days ago, my sky darkened, and was still alive to the lights and sounds of the great final civilization. So here we are, hurtling toward the darkness as a great comet bowing closer to the sun, and back again into the darker three quarters. May we grow our tastes, and appreciate not the watery blathering of bureaucrats. Enjoy your year!
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