Under The Dunes

Part II of my cruel revival, this is shorter and less edited but more developed than my previous post. Here I dissect the question of motivation at large. Enjoy!

__

I’ve spent countless nights willingly feeding my soul to the toiling of ostensible failure, digitally submitting my life as I search for its very definition. What is it about my emotional discharge that fascinates me so? What is it inside of me that forces me to exit my fantasy and begin to pour myself onto digital canvas? It is my unwillingness to conform to the forgotten body that is my generation? It is my unending effort’s fruition that, although seemingly forced, causes me to record these fleeting gasps of breath as they radiate from the recent corpse that is my creative instinct. Who am I kidding? I just want to become famous and remain unforgotten whence my corporeal form has returned to the soil from which it came. I only want to live long enough to see my constructs bury me, and only then will I be able to slip into the sands and rest under their dunes.

To Be Forgotten

It's been over two years since I've taken anything and put it online. I've grown significantly in terms of cognitive maturity, the voice I write with, and the subjects I prefer to linger on. I willingly let this project slip away while I went about whatever it was I was doing. Anyway, I've decided to start fresh by not dumping what I've written during this two year gap and instead to post some things that were written today. I think it's a good start to what may evolve into a routine, which is what I intended to do with this project when I began. Enjoy!

__

I’m obsessed with filling a void I’m told exists within the depths of my conscious soul. This void is played out in a meaningless menagerie of thoughtlessness insistent on being that which is thoughtfulness. I’m told this void exists in every person, and I’ve observed how my peers and associates cope with their own existence in the shadow of humanity’s pass. I am unlike my peers in that I am exactly like them; I proclaim my individuality by proclaiming my singularity. Every thought and every opinion is not of my own just as every material possession in my home is not of my own making. I have barricaded my soul behind the thoughts and dreams of recent decades passed and I am content with living in moral squalor so that I may be comfortably lulled to sleep by what the world tells me is important. I constantly question my motives for continuing my journey, naively believing that I know enough to see my path's conclusion. My happiness is wrought digitally, my sadness, however, is culminated in a fine mist that is only apparent when I occasionally open my eyes. The age of harmlessness is in actuality the most deadly age we have ever come upon, where a man cannot disappear into the wildness of nature to construct his living but rather must disappear into the masses to construct his identity among an unending sea of dreams that have already been dreamt. And even then, what was it all for? To be remembered is to be immortal, to be forgotten is to have lived. Mortality is our gift to each other before and after, it is a tribute to never be conquered nor matched. Mortality is what equalizes the façade of conjured happiness, wealth, and notoriety. It proves to us that we are no greater than the sculptures we create in our likeness or the winds generated by our wings’ flap. In that thought, I find great comfort.