I don’t feel the need to read fiction. There are too many facts to learn in non-fiction and only so much time. Facts accumulate to knowledge, I tell myself. Of course it’s not true, but facts are easier to obtain than knowledge. So I obtain, hoping for knowledge.
The only real pleasure comes from learning. I know I’m going to die before I know anything at all, and yet I desperately read, hoping for some sort of realization.
Or reach out for new experiences. Anything at all. Habits are destruction. Walk a different route each time. Note the architecture you pass. Note the people and the posters. Notice and it’ll mean something, right? Experience is almost as good as reading. More subjective, of course, but learning. Hoping for some sort of understanding.
Hoping that understanding/realization/knowledge means I’m not going to die.
I just want to know who I am. I know there’s no answer. But if you focus on that, you’re dead for sure. There’s nothing to learn if Unobtainable isn’t out there.
I’m just going to keep getting older and then I’m going to die. That’s how it works, it seems. I’m smarter and prettier and happier and more confident and more aware now than I have ever been. But I’m twenty-six years old. Things don’t just always get better. That’s the lie they told us when we came to America. Bubbles only float because they have so little time before they burst.
I have a hard time enjoying the summer because winter is so close.
Don't take this too seriously.