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We weren't born with a name, we were given a name. A hedgehog doesn't have a name. It's just a nameless thing with a handful of flesh and skin and a beating heart. A hedgehog doesn't even know it doesn't have a name.
 
 
   
 
Thursday, April 07, 2005
 
Lying among the Victorian rose print sheets at 2am I wonder about the ephemeral nature of my life and the huge uncertainty of the eternity that lays before me and I feel myself swimming in meaninglessness. A haphazard array of daily occurrances make up my life: everyday is a varied routine, every routine a binding ritualistic structure in itself.

Every second you spend sitting in your room feeling the world passing you by is a moment wasted in the grand wonder of possibilites of what that moment could have been.

Where are we headed? And why? Why do we do what we do and where does it all go? Where dos the past head towards? Does it all become another distant memory stored in the eaves of our consciousness? Or is it something that can be revisited physically? What does it mean to 'turn back the clock'?

The flitting moments when you wonder who or what you would be if you weren't you are the most frightening moments that you can experience; when your identity goes out the window, and for the brief moment, you are noone but you, another being in another time zone. Where does it all end up? Where does time lead us? What does time lead us to?

I don't wish I were someone else. I just wish I weren't me.
Just for that tiny moment in time. Do you get that sometimes? I do. And it scares the living daylights out of me. 'Cuz for that brief moment, all that I am just vanishes and I am left with the emptiness of all I am not, and the vastness of all that I could be. And the whole elusive meaning behind it all.

 

 
   
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