My legs are very sore today, and if there's one reason I won't sleep tonight, it's because my legs are a little sore today.
The hours of the past three days have not been what I quite expected, though I take delight in them. My world feels open to me even if the world itself is not. What a difference 'the' makes! When I think about it, I am, in actuality, nothing more than an unsuccessful rebel. For what I rebel against is not so much of importance as the truth in itself that I rebel without being granted the very success which drives my rebellion. But here I am sounding rather tautological and wish to write no more.
"What am I waiting for?" This is such a common question and prima facie it appears to be one that should have been answered a very long time ago. The question almost brings to surface a kind of angst or despair. The questioner understands that they are waiting and wants to do something to change their situation; and yet, either they sincerely don't know what they're waiting for or they simply don't know how to get what they want. When I ask the question, I'm asking it in the former sense. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Even my own world seems out of place, as if every planet in the galaxy had lost its sense of being in the cosmos, making for a failed solar system. But who am I saying any of this, I don't even know anything about space - I just try to enjoy what's beautiful. If only I didn't sound so hedonistic with that last thought. Of course, there's nothing wrong in and of itself with being happy, but to be honest, I worry about the value of those things that do make me happy. I'm either afraid of my own insipidity or of my interest in the insipid.
I feel like nothing quite reaches the ideal, whatever that ideal may even be. What ought I to do when I count it all as meaningless? I see the options before me in a predictable fashion, all of which look like yesterday, as if they were passé articles of clothing hanging on a rack. Of course, truly it can't all be meaningless if I believe that some options are better than others, which is to imply morally that some options have a greater meaning of goodness compared to others. On the other hand, what happens when it's all over, at the equal sign, in the ultimate? I don't know for certain and the uncertainty keeps me in suspense.
I guess there's no obvious moral dilemma here at all. It's just the realization that I could do anything, and for whatever reason, it wouldn't be enough. The continuance of existenz seems to spark a sort of insatiable striving. Is this attitude void of contentment though? Strangely enough, it seems that giving up would resolve the problem. Who would give up for the sake of contentment though? It's not an attitude or act that receives social praise.
Then again (and again and again and again), nothing on my mind at the moment is furnished with grandeur. I'm thinking about the most ordinary of things, the things I would usually delight in, but my appetite has shifted. Like I said, I don't know what I'm waiting for, so I guess I've written a whole lot about 'nothing.' Nothing less than absurdity.
When I say that something is among my best memories, am I referring to the past situation in itself or am I only referring to the memory of that past situation - a sort of reconfiguration? I'm telling myself that none of this is mere claptrap. Am I safe in the none?