Ruminations from the Conscientiously Deficient

Directionless is an inappropriate qualifier that often manifests itself to the mind that refuses to foresee consequentially. Mired by guilt that confounds and then numbs, there is no unrequited wisdom that we don't hearken to, even if subconsciously. We pretend that there is an abyss that lays itself unadorned by the whims of our sentimentality, but reality is often ironic - we cherish this moment of anguish to blight the world from rationality, as the only thing we want to acknowledge to be true is damnation, from conceiving anything but "nothingness."

One toils over the intrapersonal, regarding it a farce, or lamentations, wherever the excuse may lie, as the rational expression of the mind to solipsism; inextricably, the mind belies one's true intention to conceive of its own existence and purpose. Destitute, you may inquire reasons, but you're only invoking a labyrinth, finagling truth through futility. For it is true that all that exists may be reduced to the whims of mental excursions - things are just "phlip floppity fraps, droups wif drauns, froomy flammy dops" - we only express them separated and coherent in a sea of "nothingness."

But hone away from the jargon, you're left with just yourself. You're back where you were, realizing that your only problem is that you find yourself impotent by your lack of resolve. The body does not move; it does not recoil from constantly failing. As if paralyzed by sleep - pressed down by guilt given the visage of an old hag - made diffident over mistakes that are weighted more than gold, you beautify the fantastical with sharp abstractions, because it remains illusory and consequential. Why waste little of what you have for nothing to prove "nothing?"