Cosmic Motion Sickness

And so ends another minute, jarring chapter, another aromatic bloom whose complexities are no longer mine to appreciate, though I do agree, my capacity for such savouring seems limited. I am lost, or at least now I recognise it. The path I thought I was following was a naive conception of an immature mind that I cannot yet shake.

There are no paths in this world, only a chaotic emptiness through which we imagine ourselves having direction so that we do not recognise that we only drift, casting artifical anchors in the hope that perhaps the casting itself is the meaning, gladly chaining ourselves to that which is sinking and static, for inertia makes us ill and we all suffer from cosmic motion sickness.


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