I’ve written this down about half a year ago, trying to get a hold of another thought I vaguely remembered, I had had a few days earlier:
Why can’t I remember it? And why the hell didn’t I write it down?! Straining my mind, I begin to remember fragments of that philosophical epiphany, that arose from the spontaneous stream of my pondering thoughts just a few days ago. But I can’t seem to form the whole from the pieces. The results of my attempts to reconstruct the idea are called into question, perforated and found pointless; torn apart on a metaphysical plane.
Inevitably, my mind goes there — where every idea, every thought and every clever allegory is tested upon its applicability, questioned in every aspect and then found meaningless. I hate this plane.
Here, there is nothing close to reality. And still, here is where I always end up with my thoughts. I slip off reality and find myself in this bleak, barren wasteland. And all I’m left with is writing about how I have nothing to write about. Pretty meta, right?
PS: Why is it so late?
PPS: „It’s four o’ clock in the morning. This sucks.“ – Warbrain by Alkaline Trio