multi-dementional

This mandate of isolation frays threads. One’s mind can only stay upright for so long until the sinews holding it in place sizzle under the electricity of unspoken ideas.

In some threads, which have stretched past regions, time breeds its own distance: the temporal becomes another field, displacing past (memories) and future (hopes) alike.

Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism” plays in the background. These days, the world is an ocean: what once were jaunts became a tedious rowing which begs questioning its worth. Sure, staying still keeps you alive, but for such to cost the closeness to which we have all been accustomed, dependent even.

To argue whether the definition’s essence is in homeostasis or in a hedgehog’s eudaimonia, though, is too much for tonight, which is to be spent dreaming of the waves, what they bring, and what they take away, and hope that even they can cross the distance of time.

peak // pork

All of a sudden, I envy everyone.

We are told that to live to scale higher and higher peaks as the years pass and as our wisdom grows. What happens, then, when the mind cannot take the peaks anymore, and would have been content to fall into the abyss (implying that anything less than striving is failure) if not for the reality that to survive is to strive? And what is this reality but an acknowledgment that existence is preferable to non-existence, which has yet to be proven and would have long been if not for the difficulty of comparison? We must imagine.

Is creation still the transcendent manifestation of godliness it’s always mythologized to be when it is half-hearted, only a means of survival, drained of any color of gusto, of any desire to make the thing live and breathe? Today I cooked a chunk of pork and a pair of eggs for dinner, not out of love but for the sake of having something to chew on. Routine. Eat three times a day, because that’s what’s needed for your preferable existence. (Is eating only two an act, then, of rebellion?) Because the body is worth keeping alive (ars poetica but for gustatory aestheticism, perhaps), though food nowadays hovers between medicine and poison depending on where you find it.

What is success but merely a contentment that there is no peak higher than the one just scaled? A chunk of pork and pair of eggs, made with a love that glistens on its surface? As a thought experiment: can contentment be in a successful climb (no mention of the fall), in a good fry that crisps everything just right?

heavy // heady

It feels like such a fucking copout to say that even breathing takes effort. That the weight feels so fucking real. That even the muscles strain to move. That even in familiar surroundings there is a perpetual panic trigger that, frankly, is fucking exhausting to deal with. That existence, during these times, is fucking numbing, which is why you don’t blame those who seek sensation when the demons take hold. That the simple salvation of highs–a breath of clean air, a sea of green, the paths raindrops take down your upturned face, the smell of garlic, an overenthusiastically affectionate animal, love–just feel so fucking distant.

This is all so fucking repetitive at this point. Yet, here we fucking are.

How the fuck do you expect to help others when you can’t even help your fucking self out?