There’s something about now. It’s fleeting. Always. Time? It’s slipping into something else, like sand. Each moment counts, and that’s why it really doesn’t. Because significance is a parabola, and once you hit the apex, there’s nowhere to return to except for where you started from. Those who are restless and cannot come to terms with the nebulous nature of all that is will attempt to derive some sort of meaning unique to themselves from this concept, I don’t think I have the time to. Ha.
I feel very lonely. There’s very little that comforts me now. I don’t know what I want from the future, I can’t even make sense of the present. I am madly searching for magic in the bleakness of adulthood; nothing is as beautiful as it used to be. Seems like everyone else is okay, they kept walking when I stopped briefly to admire the flowers, and I simply don’t have the energy to try to catch up to them. I don’t think I want to.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how death relates to life, how the imminent absence of consciousness somehow validates the significance of its presence. I don’t know if I agree that this life is really important and that it matters how you decide to live each moment of it. Doesn’t feel that way to me. Things are just happening. All of this is just a story I’m telling myself so I don’t get bored or grow deranged, I have no idea what is real and what is not and who is true and who is not—nor do you.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, and so nothing to seek translates my soul into the dried seeds of dandelions, floating eternally in the air as a remnant of what once was, perhaps—we can never be sure, can we?