I live inside this deformed world, where meaning got wasted in decay. Wherever I look, there is another stub of motivation, a relic of a slaughtered cause who scratches on the inner sky.
Did you get anything?
My superficial ways could seed desolation, but I’m striving not to let them; I have too few footholds to afford such a big expansion of my detachment without leaving my blood on the thorns of the impossible.
How about now?
I’m finding myself at an existential crossroads. Over here nothing remains deep or anchored, everything is scattered on a thin surface, which is restless because it is slippery. Seems as if I could slip at every step, a psychedelic slippery slope on which nothing stays as intended.
Stubs and their shadows, stuffed together, sometimes too orderly, on purpose, are the intellectual poles of existence. No sign beyond the surface. However above it, anything could change at any moment. For example, morality mixed with itself at the casino of subatomic uncertainty. Or, the divinity chained at the ankle with the lead of biologic certainty.
I’m sorry, for now, postmodern abstraction.