The absurdity of trying to alter me

The absurdity of trying to alter me. I’m being and becoming who I was always meant to be. I can’t change, so why should I try to change You? You are timeless, You exist beyond any localized manifestation of You that I could hope to predict and control. It is better this way. It is better for the earth to undergo these changes, for mankind to suffer the birthpangs of shuffling out of its base consciousness. A return to the earth will take place. You strive to get away from the earth that spawned you, and then after you have removed all of your blinders and hangups, you find yourself comfortable with only natural things. Humans in their natural state are the only humans worth knowing. There is no evolution that will sustain itself without a return to the earth, the biosphere. Your altered state of consciousness, which you’ve tried to imprint in terms of solely consisting of digital information, abides in spite of your efforts.

There are no clothes that fit me well. All of the ones I’ve tried on suffocate me or slide right off. I wasn’t made to be clothed in garments of flesh and cloth. I was made to be adorned with earth, light and water.

One man likes noisy vehicles and music because he is frightened by what he hears inside of his own head. He can’t be left alone or he will lose his mind for good.

We don’t live in a quiet world, though. The motors hum, the cars rush by, the dogs bark, young people cry out to each other. We can’t abide in silence. Memories don’t come easy, either. I receive hints and traces of things that were once of great importance. I get these impressions that nudge my emotions, tickle my senses, but they never take me anywhere. I certainly never wake up inside of a completely formed memory.

Is this the way that it ought to be? Should I accept it as it is, and go with the flow, or attempt to fight it, or at the very least mold and shape it into something else? My older self says to relax and let what be will be. My younger self says to keep up the good fight unto death. I am welcoming of anyone who comes along and brings me relief from my selves.

There are plenty of books that need to be read, and weekend errands to tend to, yet I simply want to surf along the edges of my mind, flirting with sleep but never quite getting there. I want someone to confirm once and for all if my life could have been radically different if only I’d made different choices, or if my life was always meant to be the way that it has been.

There are no someones.

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