I am rather torn today, in the overwhelming flood of the expressions to be transpired. It seems that writing doesn't come to me so easily anymore; at least in this point of time. And yet at another turn it matters nothing because of the reasons I write in the first place... they have been stripped away from me.
You see, when you percieve something to be real within your mind, is it not real indeed to you? However, if in actuality this 'perception' is infact false then sooner or later the effects of its falsitude will be made known. The very reasons for which I wrote were after all, illusions, reverie, dream. fantasy. This very work in progress is harrowingly empty. Vague and worthless. Haha, perhaps as all of them have been? Except this time I feel nothing, this is inept "thing" is only badgering at void.
The entire, never-ending stream of consciousness that envelopes my life today and yesterday, and even tomorrow if i be so bold to proclaim...reeks of irrelevance in written form, just as it does upon the tongue.
It seems that the tracks have ceased. And thus, I shall turn away, and perhaps find some other road that will take me to the same familiar place as I have always been, though haven't acknowleged up until now.
After all, destination is a state of mind.
Until Then.
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