It was with certain hesitance and an ounce of trepidation that I choose to jump into the abyss of unknowledge.
But first and foremost I must forgive myself.
It's not as much the ornate rethorics as it is the overly flavish writing I dislike but I acknowledge that I 'haps could've skipped the byzantine ways of portraying some elements and similar topics keeping it without the daedalian intricacy.
It's a... Let's call it "precarious occupation" that I've chosen for myself – or perchance was chosen for me. It's problematic to be unreliable to oneself. The need to encode each and everything you say or write only to minutes later having to unscramble everything by piecing together sharded and unshared memories just so you can create a whole - making sense of the nonsensical.
It is as shallow as it seems. It's so transparent that the accumulated dredge below the remains of necessitated facets remains the same, completely unmoved by the swirling vortex of anonymity, the totality utterly unfazed as the subjectification is the obfuscation of entropy…
I do not see reason or meaning behind the meaningless, no hidden context is buried below the rubble of imaginary subliminal messages which has been thrown into the mix of regurgitated thoughts of thinkers.What's the point of connotations within these linguistic strings of "made up" except for none. Stop trying to interpret the nonsensical, stop trying to see beyond that which is impossible to perceive, stop trying to understand that which is incomprehensible. Take it for what it is… These strands of insanity suspended in inanity...
We're just detritus.
We're no more, no less.!