I think that there is a rhythm to things or at least there is a rhythm to my things; a sort of monotony. A creeping, insidious, silence veiled thinly over and around the world. I think that our greatest fault as humans is that we created it. We took it upon ourselves, generation after generation, to shed our great birth into nothingness and to apply meaning. Nietzsche once said, “Everything in this world displeases me: but above all, my displeasure in everything displeases me.” I feel displeased to say the least. Because when I was five they told me that the world was good, deeply good, and when I was ten, they told me that I was good, deeply good, and now they tell me that I can be good, good, if I try, but that the world simply is and simply is is all that it must be. So, as an ant, I stand on this rock(of which is not solid) and I wait for meaning- and I wait for a supposition, and I wait for a moment that I can breath and that the world can be more. Though I do sincerely regret, that as I wait, that strings, forged of man, twist around me, tethering me to ground. I must, just as this rock must, and as the trees upon it must and as the frogs and the bogs and as stars and cars, must. If you must, then you might, or, rather, you might not and upon such a fiery vessel you stand, there is naught. No strings for balloons, no corners for boxes, naught. I think that the moral that I cry out for is that meaninglessness does not imply a loss of meaning, it is a must that you need follow.
Just grow, that’s all that I’ve ever learned, just grow.
