late night thoughts

I feel the night's embrace. The stars hang distant in the sky. Some pulsate and other burn dimly yet steadily. In an elegant universe, which has cosmological constants that are totally arbitrary, we stand in the night and stare up like our ancestors before us facing our own battles with the darkness But little do we know we fight in vain, our truths mere lore. 

What motivates any of us? Is it A profound sense of awe? Is it that our curiosity drives us to look look into the sun. Squinted eyes and, burnt retinas. But no, that can't be. After all we've crafted a civilization which is so complex, one hardly has a minute to oneself. So to what end is it to hang off a ravine, and pull ourselves up, or swim in great depths of the sea yearning to breathe that intoxicating oxygen once again! 

In vain! scream the athiest, and the nihilist, and the depressive minorities. Who is more in touch with reality? The man who smiles through the rainy tears, the acidic downpour, the inorganic polluted world, or the manic depressive. 

I want to have faith, despite the changing tides.  I want to believe that we were meant to be, and that in hArmony and joy we lived lives that touched infinity. Even  if only for a second or two. 

But what utter nonsense to believe we are here for a purpose. We are the disease that spread with a strategic advantage of having iron, and an efflorescence of fossil fuels. 

So my worldview? Narrower than average. I don't know my lines. I am stardust, and ashes. I am a painter who can't paint, I am a fool, who falls in love with everyone that shows me a minute of attention.  No. I will not speak lucidly, and calmly I am too absorbed in the flight of the albatross, a mechanical gliding machine. I am too absorbed in the melody of the spheres, the music of the cosmos. I want to compose a piece, and I want to share it, but it is too faint.

 We put our old away, Lock their rooms and throw away the key. We have little mercy, for those who lack clarity and confidence to adapt in our ever accelerating lives 

I wonder what we are accelerating towards, and and whether it is truly progress, or whether it is more inorganic, and fake, like a poorly construed man-made diamond. Sharp to the touch, it cuts to the veins. 

 

I listen to the hum of a computer, and stare at the numbers, ever morphing into other numbers, which outputs numbers.  I don't  have peace from the numbers  Just more desire to solve the problems. But what am I solving really? My programs morph into programs which write programs and on and on like so.

 

 Cathartic! And yet they send me more difficult problems,  and as I get older I start to fear the numbers. 

 

A hive mind. Worker insects will do anything for their queen. They toil away for what? Under the impression thAt they are doing the best for their species. Worthless, And yet more useful in some ways then the queen and her throne. 

 

If you grow weary of my antics, come to me in 100 years, And I shall tell you of the migratory birds. Which once flew, under the darkened sky, following constellation after constellation, until their weary hearts wouldn't beat any longer. Then maybe you will finally appreciate the melody and magnificence  of the canyon wren.  

 

 Assuming of course that you are privy enough to join, we shall sit and watch as the night explodes. Shatters, or perhaps less dramatically fades into dwarf stars and black holes, which results in a profound silence. 

 

And when that silence arrives I will sing you a lullaby as we fade into oblivion like our ancestors before us.

 

What is the difference between history and myth? Both are told by the victors. Both guide us towards morality. And yet one is completely fictitious!! Imagine that!

 

I am a dramatist perhaps. But pleAse don't come back. There are only so many ways to fix a broken heart. Sewn up like a patchwork quilt, ready to burst. 

 

I like to think in abstraction. But being overly metaphorical might lead to misunderstanding. there are three types of thinkers: those that think in wide brush strokes, those that think in details and those that see in complete gibberish. 

I am spinning. Spinning around and around, and there is only entropy. Entropy laughs in my face.

I walk into the stranger-filled auditorium and announce: I am here, I am here to fill out an application for being part of the human race. I shout, I plea, but again, nothing.