Sometimes, I don't understand how I can work up enough emotion over vicariously experiencing something I've never experienced in reality that I actually need catharsis. I wonder what the natural endpoints of emotions are, and how many of the actions we think will be solutions truly would be solutions if we were able to try them all out. I wonder what really constitutes love. I wonder why the word hasn't gone out of fashion. I wonder what plucks the chords in our hearts that make us not want to leave the moment we're in. I wonder why sometimes our need to understand is completely subsumed by our need to wring our hearts into intellectual uselessness, into ornate literacy, into philosophical mazes (into the instinctive and mechanical scrawling of oxymorons?). Who follows us down the paths we take in the night? Who defines waking dreams? When your heart is full, does the fact that you understand nothing matter? Does stream-of-consciousness writing really exemplify as much serious thought as it weirdly, ironically seems to imply?
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EDIT / 2:58 a.m. / And what happens when the yearning for understanding returns? Are we more or less lost?
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