I don't know what I'm thinking, and I'm hoping maybe this will come to some ending or some beginning or just something comprehensive so I can stop wondering what is being processed. The things I'm mulling over, the thoughts compiling on my tongue--unreleased to the world, are contained by silent lips. I keep them there. I taste them and run them over and over again. Exhausting every angle and utilizing all and any resources. My resevoir is running on empty and the sleep that fuels me is running scarce as well. How many f(x)= will continue to be variable, unstable, or volatile? Where comes the solution and am I to arrive to it or it to me?
Where the fuck is the pencil? #2 and it better have an eraser, because nothing in life is permanent: no solution solves but to find another question and nothing serves a function but a solution...so in the end any solution is a question or confusion in disguise and really just mirrors the original problem; mocking its ability to function, as a mere mirror reflection. What is real?
...but a partition of an imaginary number.
What is reality?
...but a biased state of cognition.
What is truth?
...but a denial of innovation.
I'll let you know when I get there...but little things always make the biggest difference. Now, all smiles and thoughts tucked away for a different night, it finally stops. The sense it doesn't provide is enough--I'll let you know when I get there---far away in the distance, my heart pounds detached from my brain...There are a great many decisions that are calling for attention. I'm keeping them in the distance. The darkness afar, farther still from the light I'm seeking.
Farther still from a resolution or any kind of closing...Farther still, I back away.
06 March 2009
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