The public self wants a private thought, a moment of solitude, a second to just for god’s sake be alone. The isolated self wants to be comforted by the presences of others, by loving words and gentle gestures, by expressions of hope and cheer.

Naturally, these things are impossible. Not only so, but inherantly they go against the definitions of the very things themselves. They contradict on a purely basic level. They cannot, for the sake of their nature, be satisfied.

And yet, the inability to satiate these ridiculous cravings leave me with such a depression in my rib cage. Such a cold, frozen over shallow in my heart, such an endless hollowed out pit in my gut. I can neither rise up out of it nor shatter it like the thin, fragile glass it must — from logic’s standpoint — be.

Logic stands in as a poor substitute against the powers of this mild insanity.

And then, I begin to wonder: is this maddness the results of the age merely closing its clammy hand round my brainstem? Is this contradictory unfillable longing the effects of the ills we have collectively caused? Is this corroding hopelessness the same others aimlessly, unsolvably feel? Am I not alone only in my desperate inconsolibility? Is this the consciousness we have inadvertantly but jointly designed?

Tremors and tumors and a lifelong road of blank nothing confronts me like a road through snow from nowhere into nothings’ expanse. Like a sheet of ice on and on and on. A frozen life force. A dead sun. Stars too far in the past to offer any solace at all.

The irony is the ice around us is vastly vanishing, and we — in our stupidity — rejoice.
Don’t we know?

The never-been-alive, dead wind is starting to stir against us. Soon, the blackouts will stretch on and on. Trapped inside the warbling nonesense of our undercurrents, we each individually will all blather and flail until starvation in all its forms wipes each one of us out.

I wonder if even those trying to scale the walls will, in the end, stand a chance.
Is evolution so slow that we can hope to morph and bend out of it? Can adaptation be determinately chartered if we consciously try?

Or is all that lost to scientists already dead? Are we already breathing in the poisons that will kill our children’s children and stop reproduction dead in its tracks?

We already hold the doomed answer in our hands, but it burns with how cold it is.
Hurry, let’s close our eyes and wish away the ills we cannot outpace.
Pray a silent prayer and hope something still alive can hear.

Is this edge of nowhere enlightenment? And if so, is it what drags me down?

If ignorance was bliss, then the knowledge of having no escape was a kind of bliss all its own. A unique sort of reckless abandon that could be, in the final moments, be tapped into.

Do you have your drill and spicket at the ready?
We are about to bleed this sap out.
Get a bucket. Stand steady.


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