Linking the sane with the insane, and walking the delicate path. Forms and forces merge together, in a whirling orgy of delight; food for the derelict and divine alike. Whisping winds of fortune shape and tear our world. Matter delights and suffers in regeneration, breaking every form it contracted. Agreements agreed to even in the face of every previous contract broken. Placed at the centre, you. All your strengths and talents, all your fears and failures; gone in the blink of an eye, endure for infinite finitude. Be the change, and you cease to change. What are lives if not thought forms of another; ourselves thinkers, and yet thoughts ourselves. Controlled by the chaos, set free by restriction, removed from the moving present and presented transcendence.

Return to writing?

I haven’t journaled in a while. I haven’t written in a while. Words trickle from the ineffable creative aspect of my soul to these clumsy, physical fingertips. Words protruding back and forth, an ebbing and flowing tide of creative impulse and deconstructive analysis. Write drunk, edit sober, as Hemmingway put it. Steal the novel thoughts stolen by past writers and disguise their genius as your own. Is this new creativity, or is it plagiarism? Who knows. At what point does the same hero’s journey told and retold countless times sanction a copyright on content? What authority–aside from the Fool’s house of cards–permits the legacy of intermittent rules, of arbitrary order? Society, with its own self-preservation ahead of the lives which create and sustain it; a memetic virus of imposed limitations, yet seemingly the salvation of mankind. A tamer of wild barbarians, at the centre of which rests the enlightened, the civilized; the corrupt, the degenerate. What, then, is society without its internal conflict, a reflection of the conflicted nature of its living components, who, themselves, are reflections of the conflicted nature of the universe itself? And which forms which? Is there some form of holy trinity taking place between man, society, and the universe? Is there a divine connection at all, or is this triune relationship another intermittent rule? Language and thought influence each other so powerfully that one cannot be said to be free of the other; and in the merging centre rests Understanding waiting to be Crowned royalty with such Knowledge. To truly understand this reciprocal relationship is to be free to rewrite either one according to the dictates of one’s own conscience, and conscious. What will I rewrite? What would you write if you knew you were the author of your own story? How badly we want things when our choices are Severely limited, and yet to contemplate a million possible scenarios paralyzes us with indecision. Seems like another limited choice, between passionately following the wrong road, or complete impotency. What would we create if we fully realized our authentic selves? Would you write a utopia story for yourself? Once upon a time everybody was happy. The end. Compelling story.