Real happiness and success? It is all one thing, it is a Choice to Break.

Choice to Break:

Then I realized that the date didn’t matter. It all flowed outward in a circle, not like a stream. Instead, life gives events as small pellets of dust drifting into the bowl of life. If I began to try and determine which piece of water dripped and overflew first, I’d be achieving nothing. If I begin to try and determine one particle from another, I’m assessing information in a timeless vacuum, devoid of reason and purpose. The important moments in life don’t come at a certain time in a pyramid, placing a date on my ideas asserts underneath an arrogant untruth (not that I am all that certain in the idea of truth or the happiness it brings). I do know that whatever importance I find comes as one moment and that is all that matters. I don’t believe that words really fail us, but we fail the idea that we can permanently make words truth. I think we will evolve into technological advancements, our tools will surpass our unconscious into our conscious. Man is control and that control is continually extending. I do think we will become progressively more numb, but as we approach that whiteness and gaseous drift the word numb will no longer mean anything. New emotions will arrive and feelings will be seen for what they are. The constructs of humans innate responses to this world and each other. Our responses will become more complex, more self-aware and more controlled. The essence between control and creation will no longer be shadowed and murky, instead we will feel intensely comfortable with all the infinities and dis-finities of movements. Logic will prevail in a way in that rules will be used to break rules. Maybe I’m on the edge of an eclipse and I just caught a small glimpse of the rays falling on a glacier; I feel like I’ve been born into a uniquely special time…but at the same moment not really special in any way at all. I’ve just been able to see the next piece coming and I’m never really all that comfortable.

The funny thing about writing is that I am continually grasping for this little stalk of truth, thinking it has got to be out there; some-fucking-where. But it isn’t. It is all just a dream. Really beautiful. Cloudy. Just existing between hazy, half-open eyelids. And then you wake up into blocky colors. You recall it, but those feelings you had are compacted and occupants of the smallest space of time. The worst part is that the tale of the dream that spouts out from your mind afterwords has nothing to do with the visions discovered inside those timeless blots of patternry.

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