This can usually be found on Twitter.
This is all so backwards. I really oughtn't to be here right now.
Why am I here? Mapping sucks, it's just so horribly mindnumbingly stupid ... there's so much to do, and so little time, and I don't know, what's it all about, anyway, why is it this way anyway and why - why! - why do we get stuck, twisted and turned by life itself into that which is not the real us? Where do we go wrong, and start runnning around in circles, and look out the window and see the empty starlight of distant empty words streaming slowly back towards us, streaming lazily and uncaringly in towards us, us, living beings, conscious beings, trapped between the mirages of our own emotion and the horror of the other, between love and hate and fear and anger and frustration and doubt and deceit and worry and reality and falseness, light and darkness, flaw and flawlessness as sliding slowly we pass, so much water under the bridge, and into the deep dark ocean where nothing really matters (because, some say, nothing is real? or because the scales, the scales are so, so extremely, that to stop, to think, to look, is to do too much?) At the end of the day, we are all - I have to say it - so much dirt, so much human excrement degrading slowly into the mud from which we rose. You observe, then - the dreams, they mean nothing, the thoughts, they mean nothing, feelings - tch! for what mud ever had feeling? - and when we look upon it all, just washing slowly through the abyss of time, through the mouth of feeling, and out the other end - do we ever stop and grasp the sheer futilty, the awesome meaninglessness of all that we see - name place animal thing person body mind emotion feeling thought - and, do we not, then, force ourselves out of our own minds, squirm out of our heads through our ears or nostrils, and look back upon us, this crazy imbicile, this stupid ape, this strange creature trapped between the hard rock of reality and the sharp stone of our own unreality, a mysteriously manufactured unreality which flows through mountains and caverns and little pools of its own, rushing on down to the place where it was vanish into the ground, mingling with the mud, mingling with the body it once sustained, and mocking it - as an uncle mocks a nephew! - to its own intrinsic futility, ti's own cause for not-being?
This post was posted by Unknown at 11:02 pm
"A beach house," he said, "doesn't even have to be on the beach. Though the best ones are. We all like to congregate," he went on, "at boundary conditions". "Really?" said Arthur. "Where land meets water. Where earth meets air. Where body meets mind. Where space meets time. We like to be on one side, and look at the other."