and the bleary interior monologue that is life continues rambling. coherently and not. i look around, woken up and confused, not remembering which part of the memories were real or dream and does it really matter in the end? they all feel the same. i wake up, look around, tired, so tired still, remember who i supposedly am right now right this moment. and it's already past again, so i remember over again. rebuilding. constantly rebuilding, forming , structuring a being of being. what doesit matter? it's all so vague. my ongoing voice inside once again clear. or as clear as it gets. im not high right now. what has it been? whole hours? i keep searching. i'm hungry for something. something food can't give me. drugs can't either, although i once thought they could. that temporary belief, that fleeting feeling of completeness, when i first felt the blank substance (what ever it was) coursing through my body, head to toe, but especially head (& in the tips of my fingers) & i knew. i knew it then. for a second. and i keep trying it, keep trying to regain that second, which has past away into the memory place where dreams seem more solid than my fuzzy days of childhood, which i apparently lived (i have seen pictures, but i don't know if i fully believe these). so it goes. and keeps going, despite everyones efforts to pause. to capture the time in a photograph, in a yearbook, in a film.. it goes on & we only become stronger, more. . .more. . that's it i guess. we become more. not more certain. not more real, more meaningful, more relevant, more whole. just. . .more. breathe in . breathe out. close my eyes and hold on. so much is going on & yet nothing is. it's like a rushing rushing speeding to get back where we started. there's nothing and everything to do. everyone in the world so busy, so very busy and i sit back and watch them, rushing around. ants hurrying to the important business of trying to make themselves feel important. useful. busy. i sit back and wonder if i should feel like i should feel the need to do more. and i decide i don't. for all their rushing, they never really do that much. it is as if they are rushing through to complete the momentously important tasks of the world when all it is ultimately is a scramble to keep up with the game that they themselves have created. i don't feel like playing. i have my own game, if i can just figure out what it is. i keep changing the rules on myself ( although i don't mean to, it's just the ongoing life thing & all) so i don't think i'll ever really finish. and what would be the great prize at the end? what will make it all worthwhile? i could try to imagine something, i could try make up the great reward, but then i'd only be lying to myself. because honestly, i already know. and it doesn't sound so great when i first think it, but then, awhile later, after i have had time to think it over, to really know what it means, i think it's fair. it's not great, but it is right, which in it's own way is far far better than greatness could ever be. it's the game itself. playing it out is the ultimate reward, the ultimate final purpose. that's all. nothing monumental. just being and feeling the breathe in breathe out of everything there is to see and hear and touch. and that. .it just is. it is somehow very right in a way i will never be able to describe. it's like staring out into the vastness of the sky at night, seeing the stars scattered above me, wind, open, huge. eternal. which is so indescribably right.