- Dusting My Brain -

I wrote everything down in my head until words could no longer describe my thoughts in a way that was feasible or understandable to me, let alone anyone else. These mad scribblings range from weighted questions without answer, to simple observations. My writings consist of these things and many more, but in the end, what purpose do they serve besides a clearing of my mental desk? My writing is influenced (as am I) by several things, such as music, moods, headspaces, even the slightest things that I cannot begin to name. 

I would say I wrote my way out, but I haven't. I am not out, not out of my current situation (as ever changing as that is,) I haven't written my way out of much of anything yet, as I am only so familiar with the craft. Not that I believe one needs experience to write down what they see, but one does need a fair share of time to be able to bring those writings to life with choice of phrase.  I can tell myself “All in good time” until I have no time left, but ultimately, what purpose does time serve besides familiarity? At this point, the only thing I may truly be able to do is question the things around me in hopes to simply give others a peek into the way I see the world. The world in its vastness and nearly impossible undefinable nature is beautiful. Terrifying. But beautiful.

I could drone on like a drunk poet for years on topics simply writing down every word that comes to mind, however, the counterproductivity that would bring would destroy me in time. In time. So what purpose does time serve? As I’ve said before, Time is a measurement. In some cases a cage. We are bound by the constraints of time. Time is both a gift, and a burden. Knowledge of time drives some of us insane. Knowing that we are all living on borrowed delicacy. Everything around us is bound by time. Even the sun, steadily rising and falling as it has since the beginning of time itself is on a timer, not unlike the rest of us. 

So what does that mean? Every action has an equal opposite reaction. This is the best example of that. As sure as the sun rises in the east, it will always set in the west. It will rise. It will fall. We grow older and closer to our reconing every single day, until finally we are released. Our borrowed time, one day, is always payed. However. Timers can be rushed. Time is spent every single day. Every second we live, every second we breathe is one closer to the end of the line, the moment that the timer goes off. So it is true. The most prominent moment of our spent time, is the moment it is over. The grand finale, the pièce de résistance. It is started, and it always will come to an end. Even if one day, we find a way to delay it, at least longer than we already have, it always happens. One way, or another. So inspiring, so unbelievable to watch something so delicate, weakly whither away into nothing. Unexistence. We all wither one way or another. The human body is left behind, yet the spirit fades like that of the pedals of a cherry blossom. A grand life in celebration of the birth, than the grand release of death. Everyone complains and asks over and over, questioning our purpose of existence. The answers vary by the millions, as there are billions of us on this planet with the audacity to craft an answer to that questions from thousands of different components. Yet, something many miss to take into account is death itself. Yet, surely we do not live to die? There must be more. There must be a greater meaning to life than simply, death. 

Every life is precious, no matter the form it serves as. So why would it only exists as a means to an end, and something so trivial as death? It must not. I find myself in disbelief. But at the end of the day, I still find myself living by this policy. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. So, what is the truth?

eh, who gives a fuck. I want some poptarts.