Cruel! Distaste and bitterness cling to my chest, sink to my stomach like a hunger that will never be satisfied. All at once, these things comes and they kill me even as they keep me alive. The suffering is the only thing that makes me real, to know that in this tortured sense of existence, in this penetrating loneliness that, if nothing else, at least I am alive and feeling, that my thoughts can grasp the surface of this startling existence. The words cascade across my mind and bore themselves into the images provided to me. Thoughts upon thoughts of endless tortures, of things that are pained and are paying, never ending through the countless breaths, through the rise and fall of days–somehow hurting again and again. In this, that which I see, I become aware of my own existence as a pained being. Nausea.

I read these works and watch these movies in such a short time they overwhelm the senses. Plato declares a world without regard to sensibility,  lost all sense of direction. Franz Fanon divulges the twisted existence of the forever suppressed ”black.”  The Memories of Matsuko tear my heart to pieces, give me a glimpse of God, these people who, in all unlikely attempts to be nothing but good people, find themselves in the worst hell imaginable–and still wake up again the next day to live on, to dream, to forever retain that “be”. And this, most striking of all, Galatea 2.2, brings it all together in words and images that are too much for me to comprehend; the dam has collapsed once again and I am rent asunder. I am in pieces, my mind shattered by the own reality of my being-here. Loneliness, never understood, never comprehended, confronted daily with the endless struggle that we–us insufferable semi-conscious, wistful creatures–lay before us, fighting, bickering, hurting, competing–all for the next breath, for the hope that this one will contain within it some ounce of joy and understanding.

This is life, and I feel it. I feel it so that it becomes my essence, my core. It is the depth on which I function, the never ending scream that forever contains a sigh and a smile. It is insanity, to take another breath. All our sanity is unraveled by our own existence.  And here we are in tatters on the floor, strips of cloth for our pained minds to hover over and read like horoscopes.

I am all words. This is me, right here. Touch me. I have few stories to tell and they all have the same ending. They end with these same thoughts, the same abstract refrain. So we move on. In suffering I float above the clouds; in the disembodied pain I feel myself, in the ether I have become grounded in reality. The ground on which I stand is the blood of a billion wistful hearts. Their existence matters to me and we are enlivened by each other. Thank you, I declare to these dark red ashes, for allowing me to feel through this startled unavoidable obsession for one more day.

Time passes on, it is gone and yet it isn’t. I have spent the past 14 hours with my mind not escaping from a novel even as I slept. I am naked and it touches me and we are one, for the moment, like a strange memory spontaneously rejoining my conscious awareness.  My life, already, is a memory stretching back through chapters of time. The past dissolves the matter of “ifs” and relegates it to the “already done,” a book set into type, never again to be written, only edited by the constant means of recollection.

Kayley and I are done, it had to be done, the whole thing, the whole instance of childish, pure enthusiasm and love. My life as a Mormon is gone, a thing to be bemused or frustrated over, much like a good piece of biography. My life dissolves itself into biography with my constant writing.  My childhood melts away into the words that I give it and I see myself as maturing, ever moving forward away from the life that was mine but yesterday.

My friend whom I’ve found reason to share my not-so-curt thoughts and ramblings with has returned from an existence as lined sheets of paper and I find my mind invigorated by his physical presence. My classes, my professors inject me with enthusiasm; we imbue each other with each response, each lesson, each reading. The two together have changed me and the me lamenting over lost love is near-gone, save for the renewed sense of loneliness that is stronger than it was before. I allay it constantly with thoughts that begin with wonder and end in excitement and questions that come together to make my neurons fire with renewed vigor. I am alive; I am present.

Things have formed for me, a lifetime full of things. My mind touches insanity, runs its tendrilly fingers through its dry powder, contemplating what color it would give the face of my life if applied. A mask through which my enthusiasm may express itself. Questions to take up and forge a life out of.  A philosopher. A writer. Dare I be such things? Dare I attempt to be both, a philosopher first, and writer second? Life is construction, how can one come before the other? They are co-current.  Every understanding begins with the words we give it, every word begins with the understanding that conjures it. Can I make such creation my life? Dare I?

More aptly, how can I not? Anything other is not life to me.

My shoes rest against soft brown dirt; others have sat here before me–the grass has retreated beneath their soles. I sit against concrete but I feel light, comfortable. The run down here was not long but my body sluggish, slow to respond to my spurning. The wind breaks through my thin undershirt and soccer shorts so that I feel that I am naked. The river is high, fiercely flowing faster than I have seen before.  The trees hang on to their leaves in the cool air, like faint hopes that it will be warm just once more before winter sets in for real. I unplug my ears, shutting off the soundtrack to my run, and take a deep breath as I let the sounds of nature flow through me.  The air singing its raspy song in the trees, the water gurgling its little dance through the rocks. Across the way, the bridge seems like a relic from a civilization long past; its stone arches and strong wide concrete base hopping playfully across the river as if it was meant to dance across these waters. From this angle I cannot see nor from this distance could I hear the cars as they rode over it.

The sight and the feelings remind me of my sense of wonder, and I now arouse it within me. Life is beauty and amazement. It is this feeling which has always consumed my soul and given me purpose and love in life. It has burst within me even in my darkest moments, when I was on those metaphorical cliffs, contemplating the intentional death of my own soul or body. In the face of all absurdity it is my stillness.

For a while I wondered, what is it that I may be devoted to? All things seem dissatisfying. All things seemed incomplete. What can one do in the face of such incompleteness? Especially when everyone pretended to be so complete?

Now I have created something to be devoted to, something which I can live by and love. It is fundamental, it speaks to my core. This philosophical system–it is incredible in my eyes and its necessity is undeniable.  It is something I can believe in, something that will forever keep me oriented towards this sense of wonder I feel by this river today. Nietzsche would be proud, I think. Indeed, it was he that was, in many ways, the missing link. He and Heidegger. Before, when I turned away from all that had been handed me and said “I will forge my own path, my own view of this life,” I was undeveloped and crude. Ironically, to develop my own sense of the world I needed the sophistication of thought that could only be achieved through this sort of thinking–the sort of thinking and language I am achieving in my studies. After I had given up on my philosophy as naive and childish it came surging back in barebone, yet logical completeness, the basis for a working world view that will, I am certain, carry me through life, however long or short that may be.

As I sit here by the river and feel the swell of these thoughts in my chest, causing my mind to race and my whole body desire to leap in excitement, I declare to myself with certainty that this is something I can live by. I will walk home and I will write this up and post it as a declaration: I will develop and live by these ideas, for I love them and they are beautiful. There is an eternal life’s work contained in them.

And so I go, and my feet move away from this river to the clean white walls of my little apartment. The certainty of the resolution lives in me. It seems so simple, yet so gloriously complex. The simplicity in the commitment to a complexity, an uncertainty, the never ending potentiality.  And so it is. And so it goes.

For those who are interested in what this philosophy may be, feel free to ask me. I can explain.

Two sided time,
Your rebirth can’t hurt,
Branch out behind, the pain.

~ “Closure” by Chevelle

I look over my life and see that every enormous, drastic, heart-rending change that has occurred in my life pushes me closer and closer to the type of person I want to be. I see in this progression not a breakdown of myself but a breakdown of what is unnecessary within me. I am not there yet but I can see how this will continue and, with every new shift, every new rift in my existence, will only propel me with greater clarity and understanding towards the type of life I want to live, the way I want to be, and the way I want to situation myself in the world.

So it goes, and I am happy with it. Change is life. Stasis is death.

An island of rocks is illuminated in the dark night only by the unnatural work of our human hands. On every side and above it is surrounded by flowing rivers of concrete and headlights.  There is no vessel to get there, no safe passage amongst the speeding cars.  How did I end up here, bewildered by the unnatural noises and tides that I cannot seem to understand? Where is this place? Here, in this little patch of grass and stone arrangement in the middle of three intersecting highways, I find all of my feelings and thoughts, my insides scattered in random piles about me.  Someone has placed lights here to illuminate them, as if they are worth seeing. My pride, my incredible sense of displacement, sits companion to me on this little place; my uncertainty is the grass beneath my feet.  Bewilderment is the smoggy, exhaust filled air I breath.

How do I move from here? Will the incredible sense of confounded confusion ever leave me? If anything has ever defined my life it is this: complete and utter incomprehensibility.  I know nothing.  Everything is beyond me.  I am this island. I am displaced, surrounded by flows and movements I cannot understand.

Wonder and confusion are bedmates; they keep me warm and alive at night. They are the lock and key to my doors, the thread and needle holding me together.

Will my life forever be like this?  I spend a few weeks entertaining the idea of stepping outside myself and find it as bad as always. Not just uncomfortable. Beyond comprehension.  I am not afraid of life. I just don’t get it.  I don’t know how to live.  All I do is stare in wonder and feel. Feel very strongly. Life is beyond me.

Gehrke once said in class that professors tend to study things they are the worst at. Will I spend my whole life studying life simply because I am so bad at it? Does everyone get this impression? I mean, there is no guide to life, of course.  Just stories, abstractions that are mere shadows of the reality I am trying to grasp.  I can do nothing, understand nothing.  The most simplest of things that people just seem to get are simply incredible to me. I have to think it through, just to act, just to begin to, just to move at all.

How is it that people just live? How do you do this? Please…spare me your answers…I simply must sit here on this little man-made island for now and watch the cars whizz by, feet away.