Decadant Disinfectant

Its a solidly logical let little discussed fact that that which we term 'reality' is little more than an audio-visual representation of where our attention happens to be. Lovecraft has lovingly pointed out myriad times that not only is reality subjective, and able to be bent to and beyond any notable point of 'reason', but that often what we chose to believe to be our lives and the lives of those around us can be and is (usually) complete fucking bunk.

We go to sleep. We close our eyes and suddenly we're somewhere else. Flying, having strange and beautiful experiences, living a life that makes perfect sense at the time and has its own logic and reason that when examined in the waking world seems completely insane. Who has the authority to tell us that the 'waking' world is more real than the 'dreaming' one. That getting up every morning and suffering through the workday has more meaning than bargaining with a one eyed merchant for half a day to acquire a ruby the size of a melon with the intent of charming the young maiden who's been making eyes at you in the kitchen you both serve indentured in? Both happened. Both took effort and skill (well, the workday perhaps a bit less, all things considered).

Do we, then, assume that we've created the worlds of our dreams? Do they exist whether we are there to witness them or not? Who is to say? Who has the authority? The right?

It's a simple thing to say that what I see cannot possibly be what you see. That what I experience through the filters imposed by my existence in no way even resembles your memories of the same event. Logical, simple, exact. And yet... To understand that we can never share a single experience, in the most technical sense, with another living soul ever in the course of our disassociated and abstract lives... its a heavy intellectual burden to say the least.

So in this life, our hour of blackest need, we turn to social contracts to fill that particular void. Friends, lovers, favors and hangers on fill our lives (by our own choice) to the brim with the tittering of clouds of small birds. How can we possibly be lonely with such cacophony flooding our consciousness? How can one help but forget the abject singularity of our 'educated' perspective? The word 'alone' fails to even be something as simple as inadequate at this point.

But... the contemplation of such matters is a cold gruel to attempt to find sustenance from at this late hour. One cannot be functional if grim reality is all one has to get by. By that token, my friends, indulge. Allow the flames of hollow frivolity to fan in the wind of misplaced conjecture. Go to the parties, meet the pretty interchangeable girls, the nearly faceless parade of semi-charming potential pseudo-friends, the babbling admirers ( it matters not who you are, someone admires you enough to fall all over themselves ) with their incessant mouth breathing... Get to know them (what little there is of them to know) and involve yourself in their life, just as they have yours. Attend weddings and graduations, reunions and funerals.

Pretend it all matters.

Or, failing that... just live. It's all we can ask of each other in the long run anyway.

..or of ourselves.

Outbound Influx

When the passage of time becomes something unnoticed, something mundane and expected, in that moment something is lost. Something incalculably valuable. Time passes, people age and die. Events and opportunities pass us by each and every moment that we barely notice, let alone mourn the loss of. When we're young, time passes with a rapidity that, when looked back on, is simply alarming in its alacrity. Maturity brings on responsibilities that cut into the time we could be spending on other, much more entertaining pursuits. Time then slows to a reasonable pace, sometimes even stuttering along at a glacial near-crawl. As the golden years of our lives approach, time again leaps against its reins and drags us along at breakneck speeds even as our bones and joints become less and less capable of allowing us to keep up.

Our ability to experience is such a fragile thing. A refractive simulacrum of gossamer and spun-glass, breathtaking in its sheer blatant temporary nature. I've no time to talk of God, nor will or whim to deign declare anything 'sacred'. I've no right to infer any substantial nature to an aspect of the understanding of any person other than myself. What I do have the sheer chutzpa to do, is pointedly denote the crystalline nature of each and every moment that we are allowed, however briefly, to hold clutched warmly to our collective breast. To hopefully give you pause to think about how often we autopilot through life.

How many times have you gotten in your car and driven to work? How often, upon arriving, do you remember the details of your drive? Was the sun breaking through the morning clouds breathtaking? Did an irregular flight of birds bank above the highway and wheel away into the great azure above? Are the trees along that curvy stretch becoming more and more draped by Spanish moss as the seasons pass, bearding them with intrigue and the subtle glow of life unbound? You've no idea. However, that asshole did cut you off and almost make you spill your fuckoff-big overly expensive double soy chai latte.

It's commonly said that : 'time waits for no man'. It's commonly said because it's very true. However, if your willing to put in the effort, I believe that time is willing to take you along for the ride.

Wherever it's going, I believe it's a place worth being.

'To know life in every breath, in every cup of tea... that is Bushido.' ~ Ken Watanabe (The Last Samurai)