I'm on a kick of procrastination and whirlwind ideas that seem to be half-formed and mishapened, like eggs benedict—which I've never experienced, but the thought of makes me somewhat nauseous. The yolk is runny, and thus, subject to infection and disease—yet it's such an uplifting sunny, butter yellow that I cannot help but to continue to feed and entertain such absurd notions.

When the truth, or rather the truth, which you construct and entertain—that makes sense in its injustice, in its contradictions and cruelty; the simple lack of... becomes part of the past. Part of a bygone period, or era, rather, for it seems to stem—stretch across such significant amounts of your life that it embodies—demands such values of time. An academic, who's name I cannot be bothered to recall (I lie—E. M. Forster) states:

there seems something else in life besides time, something which may conveniently be called 'value', something which is measured not by minutes or hours, but by intensity, so that when we look at our past it does not stretch back evenly but piles up into a few notable pinnacles, and when we look at the future it seems sometimes a wall, sometimes a cloud, sometimes a sun, but never a chronological chart.

I'm leaving Enlightenment and (re)entering Romanticism in this sense (in practical terms, perhaps this would be inverted?) as I leave the years of extended mourning—of attempting to piece together bits of rationality—the search for truth and fact, and see sun (in both senses) in the future; returned.

Perhaps another day I'll explore past as I let it lie, just as past should in its disjointed lulling bumps and jutting points that I may attempt to reconstruct. Joining dots should be easy, no?

^{Back to the books for me. ♥}