GuNNhead

When you think about it, our world is the weirdest little thing ever. It’s all so small in the universe. We’re on an island in the sun. Hang on to this precious gift called life. Hold on to your connections wherever you feel them. Because you can feel, and that is amazing. Every little story could be about you, you are making a story with your life, everything is as it should be. So many people connect every day. So much ‘money’ is going around. To us it all means so much, but it is entirely worthless until it is spent. Everything means so little, so just live on our island in the sun, and enjoy it. Too many people think too much about it, and refuse to live it. Yes, it may be important; to understand other people, to know of their reasons, there is something secure in that for most, having another know you, and you know them. It may be a contented feeling. However:

Are we truly so inept at identifying our own pathos as to require the interpretations of another? Especially knowing, of course, full well that these very interpretations would only reflect insofar as much as could be processed via the works of those who not only could never cognize the goings on of our current society, but were, themselves, limited to their own pathos. These works, then, again, are re-interpreted by the same people who we would seek to interpret us, once more filtered via their own pathos. It must be noted that I use the word pathos in this instance, of course, to represent ones complete thought process, by way of every single instance that has ever occurred in each of our composite existences.

Furthermore, we must also realize that it is entirely beyond the bounds of possibility to begin even to grasp at the composition of these pathos through recounted memories alone: the pathos themselves hidden through the medium of the lifespan of the individual.

Thought processes, then, of course, having no origin that the individual, no matter how well-learned, can muster/master. Which brings us to the concept of fate: if we rely so heavily on our “thoughts” and “feelings,” in which we do not know the true originate of (id est, why one ‘feels’ like listening to a certain song at one moment in time, but not another) how can we factor out a greater power controlling our every movement and thought? Progressing this, how can we even trust our perception to offer us a fair dose of reality? Because we have to? Because we have no other options? I say thee nay! I, being the only being that I can be sure of the existence of in some fashion: I am simply writing a narcissistic love letter to myself as to the origin of my being.

This entry was posted on November 4, 2009 at 3:33 am and is filed under Fiction, Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.