Today, I’ve written a little parcel of self-reflective text. Well… really a summation of constant thought and intrigue, peering into a possibly invaluable idea (subjective of course). My mind doesn’t focus well. I cannot remain static for too long, yet my body idles in sedentary slumber and for years as well. This does frighten me.
A profound complacency, a great fear, an immovable laze
And it may have also just occurred to me that eloquence is a guise for a layman’s arbitrary pride, one in which lack of accomplishment is deflected by the notion of academia’s purity.
I can only learn what interests me. Most things do not. Those that do, do not have pragmatic value.
So, instead of picking up a manual for coding, or a mathematician’s log, or a required coursebook with the intention of earning the oh-so-coveted degree,
I read up on post-post-irony, as to uncover the origins post-modern humor. I believed that this would propel my current endeavors forward, as I hoped to create related content. However, as I continued, I found myself aghast at my current situation.
A disillusioned, mid-twenties fellow without direction, a common byproduct of today’s social milieu. Oversaturation and abundance, resulting from the amenities granted by modern technology. As food and shelter become less so a concern, we now abide by freedom in thought, but our consciousness does not. It dwells within the apocryphal remains of our entropic lives.
What of that aforementioned freedom? A freedom to choose is a different sort of imprisonment. For now and forevermore, purpose is no longer fact but merely an interpretation, at minimum beguiling and at worst heart-wrenching.
And so, we bathe in absurdity. We cackle at the innocuous and the atrocious alike. There is no statement. There is no meaning.
Only a blank picture we can all stare into. And laugh at to cope.
Post-post irony reveals this much.
Merpdo Stories 