Let’s just type and pretend it means something. We can put pretty words on perfect paper, or perhaps just the shadow of a word, the idea of one in little electronic capsules. And we’ll expect it to remember even if we don’t know how it does so.

What is this moment we live for? What goals have I piled on? Where am I going so fast in this lethargic, stationary way? How can I be what I claim? Do I need to convince you to convince myself? Shall we all mourn endlessly, endlessly wicked things done to our people so long ago, far from living memory? Why should we be our people but not yours? Are we not everyone? Are we not all in this existence together? Must we group and isolate and crowd ourselves away from each other? Must we?

There is much that will not be learned, even less which will be implemented for the betterment of humanity before I die. Shall I continue to try? Shall we all? The danger is not with the opponents nor the proponents. The fate of this world lies in the hands of the indifferent, the apathetic robots locked into distraction until death. Meaning doesn’t matter, life barely does. Shall we shake them from it? Wait patiently? Such a spur of agitation stabs my heart, begging me for action. What action? I’m already convinced. Must I convince others? I do not control the actions of any other, I cannot simply tell them and expect them to listen. If it is difficult it becomes important. Important to the self. Abandoned endeavors wear at our hearts long after they’ve been tossed aside and forgotten.

If I cannot conquer myself, what will do I have to insight change? What words do I have to persuade, what thoughts crowd together in a loose net of philosophy that may be heard? There’s no excuse for it. Nothing is gained. Not that something must always be gained, too often the gain cannot be understood until much later. Yet I do not rise to the moments of consciousness. I fight it, struggle back to the dream worlds, those that I can control, those in which responsibilities do not exist. I continue to abuse my body, stuffing myself with food of the moment, building my mass with the most sadly manipulated plants and animals, twisted and boiled and fried to an infectious mass of salt and fat. I smother my lungs with poisonous smoke, batter my liver and blood with that wicked liquor. I do this why? Am I living for the moment? Am I learning? Growing? Being? Seeing? Do I even enjoy it, or am I chasing that ghost of ecstasy, keeping fear and anxiety at bay? Can I ever do better?

I have let this go before. Yet I fear the time between, I fear the fear and anger inside me. I smother it in smoke.