There comes a time when one is sitting on a long journey in an aircraft, heading to some distant destination and one is left with nothing else except for the solitude of one’s own thoughts. I have tried very hard not to ponder too much on things, for I have in the recent past psyched myself out repeatedly over trivial things. However left with my thoughts about the less mundane worries, which I torture myself with, I find that reflection is somewhat amusing when one does it consciously. It was in those moments that I began to ponder upon where I am going with my search for myself. It is not so much that I am trying to discover myself, but more like I am trying to discover which direction I want to head in right now. I am what I am at this very moment, and it is a product of what I have wanted to do in the past. I may not have achieved it, and I am fully aware that it is critical for one to learn from his or her mistakes. I am undeniably left with limitless options in this point in time. That being said I with to discover where I head rather than where I am right now. I say this because I am content with what I have achieved, and discontent with what I have failed to accomplish. I feel I understand myself, and I know enough to realize that I must keep on moving. I am in perpetual evolution, and to stop and consider too hard as to where I am will cause me to become overwhelmed.

That being said I have decided that I want to write more, and that I want to leave a mark upon the planet. In recent past, I have been obsessed with coming up with an idea which I can publish and express to the world. Leave my piece of mind. Immortalize myself. Men have always tried to achieve immortality in different ways. Some tried to change the world for the better, some were outspoken, some wrote, and some bore offspring leaving behind principles in the minds of their children and DNA. Many have done a combination of everything. I want to it all. It is probably a matter of pride. I should be comfortable with who I am based on my accomplishments, and not dwell too strongly on goals. Disappointment is a bitter enemy. I can live with my mortality because I know that it will overtake me eventually in the vastness of existence. But because I feel like I have something to share with the world. I will attempt it. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.

Small sharp explosions pierce the serenity of an otherwise quiet existence, filling the bowels of memories with violent images that cling. In between the bursting lies nothingness in which one self absorbs into a feeling of complete complacency and vegetableism. It is in moments like these that man truly learns either apathy or to really genuinely detest himself contrary to the normal self loathing which all human beings deem fashionable. I have felt moments like these, and realize in mild pangs, the futility of the way one complicates his or her existence. All things irrevocably fall down to a lowest common denominator, and somewhere at the bottom lies truth, if it even exists as man truly believes it does. One will relate thoughts and memories and realizations which inevitably become futile. Sudden epiphanies become obsolete after but a few short moments of careful reflection, only to be replaced by some greater understanding of something yet to be destroyed. One’s outlook on existence is fleeting, and enters a state of perpetual evolution until the process itself become useless. The worlds revolve like a gigantic wave, rolling from one extreme, cusping, and then violently descending until it cannot but rise again. It is painfully enforced, for balance in not within human nature or man's grasp. It is the constant swirling chaos which perpetuates the motion of our affairs. Self importance is attached to things which do not need to exist. Some things only fill reality for so long as they are needed, others only truly begin to exist when they disappear from our lives. We want what we cannot have. We have what we do not want. And when we finally achieve our goal, satisfaction is never lasting for meaning is only found in some greater pursuit, until failure hits, and failure is painful. Man is masochistic in this sense. He can never truly be happy without being unhappy. It is impossible to love without hating, it is impossible to strive for peace, without being swirled around in a blissful vortex of self imposed drama. I hate the way things are only because I cannot find the peace I am searching for. I love the life I live only because I will never achieve Nirvana. And somewhere within the void of everything that is, one only reaches the conclusion that a denominator will cure all things. Eventually one becomes sick even of self analyzing the universe around itself. It becomes more interesting to ponder, not as to how life is structured or can be lived to maximum fullness, but rather to achieve a state in which one derives experience form his experiences and just lives it. And hence we become complacent again, monotony settles, and the cycle begins anew with my spirit sleeping interrupted only as small sharp explosions pierce the serenity of an otherwise quiet existence, filling the bowels of memories with violent images that cling.