Time

September 07, 2005

The beginning of your life was much the same as any other person that began a life. It started with incessant whining over nothing at all in order to get things that you desired, even though your desires were near meaningless. Once your life got a jumpstart towards meaning, the incessant whining departed you, but left the byproduct know as annoyance. That continued on until the day you were an actual adult, a time in which meaning was all you ever really decided to dedicate a bit of thinking towards. However, after adulthood, a quick realization came to you that your life would soon be ending. Not soon as in the nature of sooner or later, because, of course, you would be dying later, unless you died right there, irony often ensues; but soon as in time goes by much too quickly for it to truly be advantageous to anything or anyone other than itself, assuming time were actually an entity worthy of a pronoun other than “it.”

Meaningless desperation for solving the mystery of meaning seems as pointless as pointing out that nothing has a point; however, it is what has taken over your reasoning. This infectious disease meanders up the gut of tranquility and into the realm of deprivation, which is the source of your terrific turmoil. The cure for such a thing is enveloped in the crust of your soul. It’s caking quickly and becoming rough around the edges. If you do not react quickly, your future will be in the hands of nothingness, at which point you will reminisce about the good ole days of whining.



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