“Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything. We can’t talk about science, because our knowledge of it is limited and unofficial, and usually our fiction is dreadful.”
~ Philip K. Dick; american science fiction author and philosopher.
so Here we are yet again, my tramps and dears alike, the day of days. friday the 13th and no Voorhees in sight. taking my place in the human race without being shy about it, and without the definite affinity with melting objects. the brain drains the pan dry, stepping out into the light, and the flickering display that consciousness has made me imperatively aware of first hand. what is luck, eh?… unlucky in life, unlucky in nearly every other aspect of living, but why the urge to move anyway? sometimes the motion kills remains of aches and seething hatreds that bury themselves under the skin, to stay active makes the blood flow into those warm places. a crutch for the unwary perhaps, but always with the sophisticated tone in ambivalence for reality working towards a progressive end, consistent …
I grow wistful, but it really appears as nostalgia incognito, the hidden sentiment…
Dichotomy at it’s finest, that. In death it seems life can be reaffirmed, and in loss a gain. Perhaps this vague collection of words has deep meaning, or maybe the deep meaning can’t fully be expressed through the construct we call language… which I’ve found to be more often than not the case. The lexicon of emotion far out-nuances the lexicon of language. Well, the english language anyway, I suppose I can’t speak for any other, since I can’t speak IN any other.
Ramble ramble rant.
Kismet for the dying culture in the unquenchable age of thirst and famine for knowledge.
“When we argue for our limitations, we get to keep them.”
~ Evelyn Waugh; british author, journalist and social critic.