Our minds are fickle things that choose to give us insight at the most inopportune times. As of late my bottled up existential thoughts have been pleading for the release of a despondent outpouring. I think it is because each day I am becoming more aware of just how utterly impotent and powerless I am. This frustration traps me in a fugue state where everything around me is truly incomprehensible and my very capacity for thought, focus, and communication escape me. This lack of clarity creates more failures which prolong my fugue state. A truly self sustaining vicious cycle. Then I find myself treating each day like a crumpled up rough draft thrown into a waste basket.
This is a little something that I had set aside for a time when I felt more inspired. It would seem that my muse goes by the name of regret. You will find that this is far less off-putting than me venting my petty grievances. The miserable little tirade from before is but a precursor for the innocuous inoculation of the human condition that I will now administer with the deftness of a quack.
It is during these moments of reflection that we are forced to make peace with what we are, what we are not, what could have been, and what we will never be. The totality of thought that forms our very being is purely ephemeral. As such, it lacks any definite shape and character. It may be nothing more than just the remnants of a repeated firing of neurons, like spent mortar shells.
Many have proffered their own recipe for success and happiness. Snake oil vendors and prophets alike have tried to give a name or symbol, turn into a consumable, or write a manifesto for that very thing that keeps us going in the face of incessant futility and frivolity. When in fact it has no form. It could very well be just nothing more than an ideal arrangement of neural pathways and a perfect balance of neurotransmitters and hormones. If this is true then the search for either contentment or enlightenment are nothing more than just a wild goose chase.
Daoism had the foresight and wisdom to call this amorphous thing The Way.
This is a little something that I had set aside for a time when I felt more inspired. It would seem that my muse goes by the name of regret. You will find that this is far less off-putting than me venting my petty grievances. The miserable little tirade from before is but a precursor for the innocuous inoculation of the human condition that I will now administer with the deftness of a quack.
It is during these moments of reflection that we are forced to make peace with what we are, what we are not, what could have been, and what we will never be. The totality of thought that forms our very being is purely ephemeral. As such, it lacks any definite shape and character. It may be nothing more than just the remnants of a repeated firing of neurons, like spent mortar shells.
Many have proffered their own recipe for success and happiness. Snake oil vendors and prophets alike have tried to give a name or symbol, turn into a consumable, or write a manifesto for that very thing that keeps us going in the face of incessant futility and frivolity. When in fact it has no form. It could very well be just nothing more than an ideal arrangement of neural pathways and a perfect balance of neurotransmitters and hormones. If this is true then the search for either contentment or enlightenment are nothing more than just a wild goose chase.
Daoism had the foresight and wisdom to call this amorphous thing The Way.
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