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.