Error says more about irony than it does about what is definite. How we arrive at error is more telling than its meaning in contrast.

What I need is someone who will disagree with me if compelled, not the agreement conceeded for the sake of appearing polite.

Anxiety and Documentation

Today was like most days, the sun came out, the wind blew across the tall field grass like a grooming comb, and everything made sense or kept to its order. That was at least until I stepped outside to follow my own daily routine. Disruption after disruption followed and all that I could think about how I was the cause, no wait, the outcome of my many mistakes. How could I begin to forge a path for myself when the chaos left behind me was so damaging to so many? Why was I unable to write? There is perhaps nothing more desirable that I have felt in the last few years than the urge to write. This is no desire isolated to myself but rather it is a compulsion outside nuance of an “I” that must grapple with the trust of understanding, to contribute in some way to a specific area of knowledge. But so far I have done nothing and even more have wasted the time of my professors and colleges.

I am brought here today to consider what Emmanuel Kant wrote about ethics and yet I cannot draw myself to write it down. I am unsure whether what I say is right or whether I am simply fooling myself. There seems to be no lack of ideas, for when I speak they seem to flow out abundantly but there is something about the documentation of those thoughts that worries me. What enormous consequence is contained within a document, it is sentenced forever to reproduce itself again and again, the resonance of history eternally present. And yet, here I am, documenting, nonetheless playing a role in the creation of a perpetual past that can be rediscovered in its imperfections and idiosyncrasies.

What I then venture to say is only apart of that creation, but what is it exactly that is in the process, what state of mind such that it is reflective of a future that has yet to present itself - for what other reason does one have to document than to preserve for the future. What a being this must be who desires to document! What of the anxiety to do so? How can we account for this? Is it a being that knows all too well the consequence of documentation, which regards it with care or denies entry into the walls surrounding its present past? If only we could come to some conclusions about this being that is fearful of documentation and have it recognize the possibilities of understanding that it opens up regardless of its ability to express it.

The Other

The remains of the Other lay over there, removed from my immediate perception, absent from the concept of "Self" as isolation. And yet, despite its passing, it regards me still in its state of decay, concealed among the flurry of leaves swaying loosely in the autumn breeze - threatening at any moment to snap its weightless presence from its place of origin. The body of the Other speaks to my greatest and most plain deception that there was ever such a thing as a "world" or an "I" to own.

Idle minded

Today, like most days, I awoke without needing to give assent to that action. There has been a fair amount of talk generated around the new year and what it might hold for those who are amiable to its persuasion. I agree that change and goal setting are important, often so important that they require constant reaffirmation, especially for those who are weak willed. I also maintain the view that one has to be accountable for the direction their life has gone, but to do so only once a year is simply neglectful. This date of December 31, that prolonged wait for 11:59, that ten second countdown to midnight, are all arbitrary points of reference soon to be forgotten in flux of life's moments.

Turning from contentment

My time on earth is limit and what I create is mere coincidence. For there are no guarantees in life, only the cyclical process of friction that governs the shape that all matter will take. I'm not one to entertain notions of a utopian tunnel vision, leading the blind towards their end... a dream of suspended existence.

I prefer the struggle, the vice, the protruding irony, the ignorant mentality, the tormented souls mortality, the inconsistency inherent in plurality, and finally, I enjoy stubbling on the words that force me to embrace the obstruction of vanity. If indeed these attributes exist, one thing is made clear. Those who know not what they are have no claims to a self identity. Furthermore, the mirror shows the truth of interpretative subjectivity and for some their lives are borrowed from an image they have never seen.

Automatic Reason

My thoughts were scattered today, the page penetrated me with a blank stare. What purpose does this practice of automatic writing involve wherein error evolves into an archeticually unsound structure? As you sit in the comfort of your chair to watch the rubble tople, it might cross your mind to ask if it was worth the effort when all that remains are those fragmented phrases left parched by a creative spark. What more could an author ask for in this world of the imaginary where all things become tangible and life is forming a clearer calculation? I lay these crooked lines to rest on this clean sheet streched out along a desk in hopes that the turmoil will be brought to calm by the stillness. At the begining, it was my hope to achieve greatness yet all I have done is peered into the scribled mess before me formed by a jungle of vine like sentences and the dence undergrowth of thoughts. Is it possible that these are the seeds of a prized novel or short story? Could this be the content that changes history through radical reform or is it best to be forgoten upon entry? The real, uncompromised, self exploration presented here in all its error and intensity.