Existential tones.

it's like staring at a to-do-list and you realise you have struck off none.
and you realise how plans are just excuses which are used for procrastination. It is simply the avoidance of that fundamental radical leap that your existence projects towards.
And my lifetime project is to be radical.
(you will not want to know what that constitutes)

I'm growing weary of being a passive nihilist. The advantage and disadvantage of being one is my apparent indifference to everything that proclaims to be true and real.
I only know that what is true and real is depravity.
And I also know that I have since ceased to be motivated to do almost anything.
The books I read are like bricks.
The words I speak are like swallowing my own puke.
The words I hear are like ear wax. They pile up but they are not processed as wisdom.
Increasingly, I clap less.
I stopped being curious.
I smiled at children but they didn't do likewise.
I feel extremely tired and I drag my feet.
I waved to cats and dogs and they ignored me.
I am dragging my body to catch up with just the activity of existing.
I think I know who I am, but others don't.
I am impatient.
I am too patient.
I am like a loaded cannon with gunpowder.
And I am a yellow Volkswagen without a driver to bring me to strange lands.

At the core of it is not even melancholy or despair.
It is my eyesight deteriorating as I age.
I cease being.
I'm going through the motions of being.
I can numb myself with superficialities or intense passions.
But I cannot unbecome myself.
Erasure is the worst concept introduced by deconstruction.
I find answers indeed; Too Many.

My only solace seems to be Ferrer's vocals.
But that's another island I escape to.

There is this big banner in front of me. It reads: "SO WHAT?"

I'm subjectively in an ethical relationship with the Other.
So what?

I aim to finish my p.h.d.
So what?

I want to fall in love, marry and have children.
So what?

Every statement has answers to justify actions that lead to its fulfilment.
But it's that But that lurks beside the central host.
the demand to do presupposes already a suffering; the labour to supply; to provide the effect that the cause demands.
So what?
There is beside the point something entirely in co-existence with me;
yes, I call it the green man.
But he does, with devastating effect, is to remember on my behalf, what I have done and not done.
Nothing escapes him.

I am a tree because,
here I am, all rooted and naked. (not quite)
pretending to take flight to faraway places.
but I am here/there all the same.

I become afraid, nightly.
Of doing.
and not doing.

That is my fear and trembling, that I am blessed with.