I am so damned tired of trying to figure out how to "get food pellets from the universe". I find that my greatest influence upon my writing is derived from outrage. I am also tired of that. Today I am happy. I remember back to reading Camus and how the absurd can strike at any moment. I find great satisfaction from that perspective. Existence poses such strange trials and tribulations to overcome. That I have these conditions to work within is absurd regardless of what the conditions are. Given that, it is time to play ball. I have begun to overcome the desire to escape from participation. I have begun to exit my existential vacuum.

I have decided that the most base, and the highest grace fall between a spectrum of subjectivity. I like that I can decide that. All truth is decided upon, and based in choice. As with all of these orbs of thought that seem to ramble through my brain they have been accepted, chosen, and relied upon to choose other truths. I have no qualms with this other than the world becomes immediately dependent upon my subjective experience. Objectivity seems a lie. Truth becomes a burden and a blessing. I control the outcome of my being, but in doing so have to accept the weight of my choices.

Writing is so strange. I feel as though the thoughts just boil and brew and accumulate and finally when the pot begins to boil over they leak out onto whatever substance they can adhere to. From pattern to pattern, existence provides infinite mediums to transfer information regardless of time and space. A poem by Blake, transferred though space and time from his mind to mine. I don't understand it. It being thought. I can see use, and emotion, but the finite is not clear.

Of course this is all unclear. Life can be unclear. But the thoughts still boil.