It is... that time.

           I've spent all day thinking about what to busy my fingers with in the inscription of these words today. I've thought, mumbled, recited and insightfully charred over these thoughts. I still maintain the worry of improper prescription of phrasing or dialect.
        

          I came across many thought provoking concepts today. Oddly enough... It always seems as if I have something to write about, whether that is a benefit or a curse is beyond my comprehension at times.
        

          I wrote on a friends Facebook status today, " I often think of my last moments my "end", my death, as my time for enlightenment, for revival and for remembrance. I used to believe it would be better if someone had written the script to my life, and let me in on the ending. I have a bad habit of when I pick up a book I always read the last page... Sorry I'm blabbering. But the one thing we all have in solidarity and in universality is our ends." 

            And it really got me thinking, death has been in my head all day today, and I'm not sure it is for any wrongfulness or discontent. I've thought about what it is to be human, to be a species riddled with a sense of "self" a precarious concept in its own right. I've thought, as I laid in a cooling bath, what it would be like to be dead in the isolation of "nothingness" as I softly inhaled the incense I had lit, my eyes closed, my hands weightless and floating to the surface of the water. I thought of the authors of two books I'm currently reading "The Forever Decision" by Paul Quinette and "The Book of Awakening" by Mark Nepo. Paul Quinettes book is about him, a psychologist, talking to his patient about why not to commit suicide, and Mark Nepo's book seems to be a prescription for living presently.
         

          I feel like I should state here that I am not suicidal. That I merely see death as a moment of clarity that often I look to for understanding and inspiration and surety. 

I find death, above all else humbling.

         I often think of those who are ravaged and raped by their depression and false idealism each day, wrecked by this world and these beings that fail to encompass and empathize with them are the victims of this earthly existence. For we all feel down and unsure.

        My writing voice seems such of a narrative in comparison to my vocality. As if it is me looking at the world from a perspective that is just in a state of "near human". As if I had no real exposure to these thoughts themselves, as if they just pour from my mind as a stream of consciousness. The cathartic release of a encapsulated mind.

clarity is not the proponent of thought

And That is What Makes Life so Beautiful