eden

utopia is perfection that is just a step short of itself.

given our meagre yet delicate mental equilibrium, perfection, were it suddenly thrust upon our unsuspecting selves, would most likely cause us to kill ourselves in a desperate attempt to awaken from a perfection that we know could never possibly be reality.

the utopian version of the ordinary being, therefore, cannot be considered the same as the utopia envisioned for us by clerics of old, nor the garden of eden promised by holy men, but rather an ordinary life, filled with such completely uneventful events and circumstances, that we would be forced to cease our ponderance of the whys and hows of our own existance and focus, at last, on the present… and live.

these tiny flaws we seek to smooth out, they are so very important for our sanity. even utopia isn’t wrinkle-free or unsmudged.

emo

The introspective nature of my thoughts prompts me to dedicate a post to identity. Who am I? Am I this face that I may change at the whim of a fancy and a scalpel or a hammer? Am I this body that may be toned or neglected, cherished or ignored?

I am… nothing like you.

Or am I these thoughts that come to me unbidden? They are scraps, merely scraps taken from the musings of intellectual superiors. They are not I. My body is composed of my father and his father before him. Is there nothing here I may identify as myself, my own, original and never before appearing in this world till I claimed them? These words, they are old and worn, ill-used and abused for centuries before I existed. They express ideas built upon the ideas of those before and around me, typed by fingers that have my forefathers’ genetics embedded. Is there not one atom here that I may lay claim to?

I am… free.

Is there such a word as an outrospective? An inspection into that which lies outside myself? Too many variables, it would be impossible. The introspective then, is familiar in its opposition of the outrospective: it reveals too little to investigate, there is a void. All that is contained within myself comes from external sources. What am I? Merely the boundary between the internal void and the external?

I am…

I don’t know how to begin to complete that sentence.

Ignorance, a suspension of thought, a brief moment of darkness and silence.

Where does this line of reasoning end?

When did the metaphors run out?

When did abstracts replace reality?

When will it all end?

I am… alone.

I am unafraid. Uncertainty can lead to growth, to answers. Or to new questions.

Note: I am fine.