Crawling Through The Dark

Walking through the black of morning to work, I realise the city adopts a different tone. Though I've stumbled through this streets as an infant, trawled through them as an adolescent, in the thickness before dawn, they loom with a latent threat I had never recognised before.

It is as though a familiar friend has decided to wear a ruse and, in staring to recognise the flesh, I lose the friend.

Hunger Pains

Rough-souled boy, you have eaten my soul so many times I hardly noticed you had an appetite.

Thoughts Upon Waking

The problem with philosophy is that it de-mortalises being human. It breaks down, attributes meaning to, every action in life until nothing functions for pure function at all.

And, yet, philosophers are those kinds of people who build pedestals for themselves, clamber upon them in order to see just what depths there are to being human. They are the ones with the insights and exactly those who will never part with this kind of knowledge.

And, so, I will always prostitute myself to these kinds of people because having that kind of power is something I will always desire.

On Letting Go

It's a thought that has often crossed my mind: in giving up writing, have I given up my purpose?

When you make something your sole reason for breathing and then deprive yourself of that, can you be said to be living any longer? It feels as though I am basking in shadows, trying to draw light from their darkness.

There will always be those potholes in me belonging to the people I thought I was. I placed so much of me in the words I conceived that there aren't even crumbs left with which to continue with.

The Difference

There is one crucial difference between her and I in that she recognises her inability to do certain tasks, and yet does them knowing they will be bad, while I desire so badly to be good at everything, and feel the sting of disappointment every time I work outside my boundaries.

Outcast

What is there to do when the poets have disowned you, the intellectuals do not know you and the artists sneer at your attempts?

There seems very little besides blogging where even the most mundane events reach celebrity status, if you're coherent enough to manage a sentence or two.

For me, it's not even the coat-tails on the shadow of what I long for.

On Nietzsche

Do I desire to be beneath or on par with him?

What he writes resonates in an uncertain earthquake inside me. I think I would like to meet the man, if only to hear his speak. But I do not want to know about his history, his upbringing or desires. I want to forever commemorate him as I perceive him now, crystallised in his intelligence and perception.

And I do not want to make paper wings of his observations nor to decorate notepads or studies with them. It is only a superficial showcase of my own "intelligence". I would rather silently devour each word, not like nectar but maybe with a child's distaste of brocolli, the way that a denied truth should be taken.

That way I will wear his etchings on the inside and be insulated by the chance that, one day, I may understand them and peer through the mundane as he once did.