Tautology

There isn't a lot to be said about a lot of things.

Whether or not that string of words is a cliche, or the idea conveyed through it is a cliche, saying it feels somewhat cliche. This is not to say that I am bothered by such a thing, because I'm not; repeating what others have said is impossible to avoid. Take that however you will, but unless you're making words up, you're not saying anything new. But then again, what am I really saying? Am I actually saying that to describe or analyze a happening or event, or to describe one's analysis of that same thing, is to fall short and misrepresent what you are in fact comfortable enough to talk about?

Or perhaps I am saying that there aren't enough words to properly articulate the very things anyone and everyone speaks of? Does the dictionary not contain enough to correctly put down on paper? Are it's pages scrunched too tightly with no room for an appropriate amount of vocabulary? I don't think in such a way. But even if this were so, the mental capacity of the average individual would be incapable of containing every single word. I digress, but I continue.

The way I see knowledge in respect to the human mind, or maybe it is the other way around, the human mind in regards to knowledge, is that even if the brain had the psychological competence to store every single piece of information available to us, as a way to quantify information, let's say current knowledge in the field of astrology, a human's mind would never allow itself to retain everything. The brain has a mind of it's own, and to knowingly attempt to fill it with 100% of the knowledge available to you would go against its very nature; it isn't meant to be filled, it is mean to be expanded. One is not meant to know everything, and one will never know everything, not even in one field of study. The brain knows, and this is how I feel. Wow. My point is: even if the dictionary was considerably thinner that it is now, no one would be able to recall all words at all times. Even Shakespeare, the man responsible for so many of the words we use today, wouldn't be able to memorize a 500 page dictionary. That sentence is redundant: the fact that we use so many of the words created from Shakespeare's mind suggests my very point. It is not as if Shakespeare was completely restrained by the available selection of vocabulary, and instead of just finding words already in existent, he would just make them up on the go. The English language is extensive, and if you were ever to "run out of words," borrow from another language. But this isn't really what I'm thinking about.

Maybe instead what I mean is that there isn't a lot to talk about at all; that everything is far too similar to truly differentiate between everything else. But that would be ridiculous. What it may be is that every piece of the aggregate of human perception, which is easily differentiable from the other allotments, isn't even worth discussing. It is all either too boring or too mundane for anyone to say anything.

Maybe no one wants to say anything. That doesn't seem too farfetched. The world is a stupid place, the world is a lazy place, and the world can be a scary place to have your voice heard, even if it is only to be heard by yourself.

But maybe what I'm saying is merely a fallacy. That there truly is much beauty in the world in both noun and adjective, in the things we both do and see, and the way we speak and sing could spread a whole new blanket of stars over the landscape, all left to our devices.

My point may be lost, but it lost within the semantics. It's all semantics, everything.

Question what people say and what you read. Do no get caught up in your first interpretation. It may not be the author's intent to say what you are reading, and it may not be your your reading that the author is intending.

Good luck.

Day 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609...

I am a translucent sack of organs, a bloated bag of tissue stitched together by a thin red vein. And everyday before the dawn a phantom hand replaces my heart and brain and lungs and everything else with objects I hate or of no import. It is easy to confuse these foreign fragments as parts of my true aggregate, but as I rise from my slumber and the whites of my eyes meet the blinding light of the day, I cough up blood and smoke and damp brain cells and I know that these things cannot be right. I can't help but think about the automaton I have become, or the abstract idea of 'living' that has completely engulfed my life. What has been put into this shell? Could it be debasing my very soul? My liver is gone, nothing but a black hole remains. No stars or moons or planets, just vacuumed darkness inhibiting my central cavity. Lungs, no more, ragged mosquito nets occupy the empty spots beneath my chest. Heart is squashed, merely an aging pin cushion now, stabbed until the insides made out. It doesn't run, it doesn't beat, it doesn't give me hope for anything, if it ever did. It's just a fucking pump filled with fluff. My ribcage loose, the ribs clack uncontrollably under the weight of dead meat, like the insides of any feral confinement. I wince as they pinch against my melting body, sending ripples through the drawn up pieces of fat. Who am I but a manufactured heap of flesh? Who am I but a rotting corpse? Who am I but a human being? Who am I but a fraud? My head is filled with the brain of a man unknown to me, and as his skull aches I can only scratch and claw at my own forehead to drown out his incessant complaint. My only hope is that I can delay his inevitable trip to the ledge of our unconscious and save ourselves from plunging off the edge. But as my skin sheds and my nails thicken, my acceptance of this reality becomes stark. I do not know who or what this phantom is, or why he chooses to flood me with such scattered light, but what I do know is that I will never understand. Acceptance does not require understanding. And while I hate what he has done to me, I do not hate him, or it, or she, or they, or we, or me, or whatever have you, because I know all of it is who I am, and to hate myself would be a monstrous contradiction.

We're getting better everyday.