nighttime

Listening to Arcade Fire’s old albums, or staring at odd patterns on the ceiling, to read endless articles about existential depression (no longer justified when you’re twenty three instead of fifteen – one ought to have a grasp on one’s self by now), thinking about reading without reading itself, the culmination of a novel idea instead of the working a novel, to title it briefly – a novel about the futility of things when you realize these things are sort of out of fashion, it is imperative for you to become beyond this age, this era. the older you get the more at home you feel with the people around you, and so no longer resist. and to no longer resist one becomes confounded at everything. words echo through coffee shops, while Rahema tells that she is looking for truth. in my mind truth can be found, but what of meaning? it is like seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, but the journey is perilous or too long or one is absolutely perished, vanquished of any meaning. we must move towards it, that we know, but why? i have no reason to exert myself towards it, except that i should perish if i would not. the ultimate answer to this could be love, but on love – that is too difficult a thing to deal with.