The absolute delights in life I find, simply do not come from our endless pursuit of perfection. Our ideas of joy are nothing but fading phantoms in an atmosphere that is defined by tuned righteousness and a pretentious sense of clarity. While we cloud our desire for clarity with the desire for wealth, stability, and companionship, we fail to understand that all these things that we so sincerely seek are never going to give us what we truly desire. In the presence of the power of words, the opportunity to create favorable lies and decorated hypotheses of ideal living is endless. Words have led us into deeper and deeper abysses from which we seem to find no return unless we decide to break from our daily norms and kneel in humility before the elusive facades that our lives have become. It is an unfortunate weakness of a writer to personalize his experience through his or her words but perhaps, I hope, personalization might bring a taste of my dilemma to you. You must remember that I am not sparing even an ounce of my attention to care for my words so that they might mean something to you.
We travel the world, entering new spaces and allowing the sting of new scents to touch the sensitive points of our spirit every moment of our lives. The amount of resistance to reality that we face is endless because our minds have decided to find comfort in the coziness of our past, in the warmth of the memories of our parents, and in the sweet smiles of our oldest friends. If you see deeply enough, it is these things that define us. The definition of ourselves is subtler than our focused minds can comprehend. However, in the deepest realm of understanding, all definitions are void. I fear that the closer I get to touching the real experience that I am trying to communicate to you, the more ambiguous I might sound and the more annoying I might seem to you. But then, it is the playful trickery of life to rocket us far from meaning and cast us into perpetual states of confoundedness and endless moments of absolute agony and horrendous unknowing. It is, the nature of our very lives.
When I tumble into agony as I embrace the long nights that come knocking at the doorstep of my drunkenness, I feel helpless and compelled to allow myself to fall into discontinuity. There is a great grace in allowing discontinuity into your life. When you allow moments to exist independent of each other and leave the cursed science of cause and effect to rot in the glory of your thoughtless existence, life seems simpler than we comprehend it to be. There is a great desire in me to allow moments to be discontinuous with each other. But in the light of my conditioned self, there is a great craving to create continuity. To find connections between moments and create fantastic stories drenched in emotional meaning, scientific progression, and philosophic mysticism. It’s a great deal of bullshit. And it’s good. Sometimes.