When we, like all things, become dust.

One day I was hit with the sudden, insatiable urge to write, and to continue writing until I felt emptied, my insides hollowed and my mind at ease, soothed by the fact that none of the magnificent and sensational things that happened during my short stint on this massive planet were being faded over the graying rotations of time. For the purpose of my writing is not to inform you, the reader, of the sometimes unbelievable anecdotes of my life, neatly typed within scaled margins and tucked into cybernetic folders; but rather to maintain a certain spark within myself, a spark that is seldom extinguished, but one that can be tamed if I allow some of the heated passion within me to meet the atmosphere, and passively diffuse away in a nitrogenous cloud of ideas, dreams, and secrets.

Secrets held from others tend to be less harmful than those we keep from ourselves. So many times we offer the world a less than accurate representation of ourselves, so often that we indeed begin to believe we are that representation. That wholly inaccurate and completely artificial version of our true selves! So, I strive to portray myself as I truly am, a 6 year old child in the encasings of a 21 year old medical school student. A dreamer, musician, and windlike individual; a character you will learn to love, hate, and sympathize with.

To the reader, remember that everyone has a story, although it is usually born when we least expect it. Unfortunately, like unwanted fetuses we dispose of our stories, salt them with disconnect, and shove them in marked bags for proper disposal. Sad indeed, since a story is all that will remain when we like all things, become dust.

The Meaning of Reality

What, I say, is the meaning of reality?

This amorphous agglomeration of senses we experience day by day? This mixture of the olfactory, optic, sensory, and palatable impulses that we absorb with our axonal endings and process in the super computers we call our brains? What is the conscience, and what role does it play in our lives, nay, our existences?How can one explain her outlook on the world, the way she sees it, and the way her brain, her strategically placed mass of white and gray matter folded upon itself, functions?

Is what I see what you see, is what I taste what you taste? Is my outlook on the world mine and mine alone, or do you share a similar view through your eyes, for mine fail me at length, and in their myopic grandeur I get naught but a fuzzy resolution.I see the world as a whole, I see the separation of sound, light, motion, and the movement of electrons from one being to another, from one particle to the next, creating the instances we know as interactions.

I see the world as a chaotic system, yet ordered in its seemingly endless complexity.

I know that what is happening now has existed for all time, and what has happened in the past continues as I type. Never would I assume that we, while so often erroneously assumed to be the pinnacle of evolution (that which has no direction, and so no apex!) are naught but placeholders in the infinite space of the universe.

How easily man is fooled and how quickly he becomes self aware!


2/4/08

The Disintegration of Reason (7/14/2007)

To bear witness to the disintegration of reason in the people of our times, walking amidst the rubble that once was pureness of thought, mature and relevant discourse-that was the saddest moment of my existence.

To attempt fruitlessly to hoist you on my shoulders, to understand entirely too late that you were naught but a child in the guise of adulthood, your underdeveloped frontal lobe easily molded by the callous encasings of bitter society. As you press your atrophied neurons against the tight enclosures you feel some sort of euphoria, some sort of content with knowing nothing, but assuming omniscience, assuming greatness, assuming power.

What power is there in forfeiting individuality? Is is powerful to be raped, to be stripped of your conscience, pressed up against the enclosures of society and forced to close your eyes and accept the inevitable? That you, the youth of our times- will be easily forgotten?