Between unhealthily large doses of caution, trepidation, flashes of love and all-encompassing desolation, the watch for that thing continues. The enigmatic proportions of the concept is growing so huge on me that I am slowly being forced to accept that it could possibly not exist at all. Part of the problem is that the concept in itself looks quite hypothetical or downright unrealistic at times. Does that mean I can stop looking? Do I have a choice either?
Time as it progresses has taken a great fondness for marking its passing in an extremely staccato fashion and so does the moods associated with it. There is so much beauty in every thing at times that your little spot of darkness does not amount to anything and living becomes worth the effort and pain that goes into it. Then there are times when you stick to the shadows for the fear of the world seeing the real face of your self.
Maybe the only consistent bits in this game are the meaninglessness of statements. It does not matter how, what and why I appear as anything. Labels do not matter anymore nor does belonging. What good is any system of, when your own system can't find a footing of its own. When my mind speaks in words that mean different things at different times, what does it matter that the language we speak cannot express truly what I want to express?
It is when regularity becomes the curse of avoiding the mundanely regular that you know that you have become way too successful at dismissing everything. Congratulations, you just defeated yourself now and thrown away what was probably your last straw. Belief system? What is that? Are you awake or are you dreaming? What is it that thing that makes you what you are? Do you even know? Would you survive if you were separated from it?
How much of what I think I am is actually what I am? How much of it is what you want to see me as and what I want myself to be seen as. If the majority agrees that I am a 'nice' person, would that actually make me nice? It would not matter, right? Because neither you nor me is interested in what I actually am, we are just interested in what it is made out to be. It is way much more convenient that way.
Alternatives? I do not know. Does it matter at all when there is no demand for it? Sounds overly pessimistic or fatalistic? Or is it just that it is quite a lot more comfortable to dismiss things to the cheapest available denominator? A blank cheque of being causally carnal carries the day much more easily and effectively than having to deal with explaining an emotional investment in its place and its repercussions. Cheap, indeed, does sell.