Confused-Shoes

i keep insisting, i must not despair. Why should I? Life does not compel me to do so, but the prospect of emptiness beckons. There are reasons for and reasons against; somehow, it just boils down to a matter of perspective. That is why Peter Jennings never believed in objectivity, for he realized that there are many versions of it. I, too, am fascinated by the idea, but such is its essence; it proves to be just that, after all.

So I fail to intuit myself. The self could never be logically derived from any open system of thought. This is all bullshit but it’s true. We call bullshit all the things we wish to deliberately misconstrue. And then somebody nights ago kept insisting to me ‘i wish i could be just like you.’

Life causes me to formulate algebraic expressions and psychological questions and military missions and complex intuitions all because I am still searching for my Platonic idea of you. I am nervous, I do not know how I can ever reach you. I am singing, ‘I though I knew you, what did I know?’ and I am smoking imaginary Marlboro’s. All day long I brood over my fate, a fate which I could not ever transcend. This is hopeless, I tell myself. This is not fruitful at all.

Such is the fate of a man who is consistently inconsistent, looking behind the back of the rear.