kurt vonnegut is dead. so it goes.

in solitude, one seems endlessly caught up in thought. thoughts barrage the psyche. relentlessly demanding attention from the unattentive. our minds aren't occupied by ourselves anymore. the tedious events of life burrow their way inside. unwanted nuerons flash. thoughts come unbidden.

could that little daemon be killed? can one release themselves, from themselves? could it be possible to slay our inner demons, without creating more? i think not.

kurt vonnegut is dead. so it goes.

why does it seem like everyone is getting the shorter end of the stick? why does it seems like this isn't what life was supposed to be about? why is it that our lifes work never gets completed?

never-the-less, these questions are useless. there is no practical use for the answers. no blessed outcome from these questions or answers. it won't help. nothing external helps; nothing internal helps either. even becoming a hermit doesn't help.

on this mad quest for enlightenment, one cannot help but become ignorant in some ways. nothing is perfect. nothing is in balance. the scales have been tipped and the weight of it all rests on our shoulders. i guess what waits for us on the otherside, is just exactly what we left on this one.

we suffer from greener syndrome. always wishing something about our place in this world was different. be it large, changing everything about ourselves; or minute, to the very smallest detail.