Life is but a memory. A continuous stream of recollection. The present is a mere construct of the past, a simple illusion that grounds us. We are forever falling forward into the unknown. We claw about for fragmented reminders of this free fall, for past sensations that resonate with our privileged bag of anamnesis. We are the center of this universe. It is ours, and we alone are the keepers of its history. For man revolves around none but himself; no perspective but our own can be explored.
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Unsure of my place. I want to produce. More thoughts, more convictions and passions. This restless struggle with idealism. The ideology that yearning for more, for productivity and creation, leads to reward, internal or external.
Sacrifice. I would like to cherish sacrifice. There is only so much time in a day. A finite amount of resources and energy to expend on any given thought or endeavor. Sacrifice. These are made when your roots of preoccupation have become entangled and risk strangling the breath of enterprise. Hack at the roots. Bisect yourself from the web of distraction. Sacrifice. An escape towards desire and its fulfillment, accompanied with disorienting estrangement, pain, and a lack of reassurance. No grounding to slow you down or hold you back. No more gripping assurance when the winds of doubt and currents of change buffet your course. Sacrifice was made and requires to be endured.
William Dare 