“Time is continually pressing upon us, never letting us take breath, but always coming after us, like a taskmaster with a whip.”

-Arthur Schopenhauer

Half a decade?

Yeah . . . well, sorry. Not like anyone reads this incoherently vivid verbosity anyway.

There was a time, long ago, when half a decade seemed endless . . . so quick it flies now—the rhyming of history. And how wasted was it? I’m not sure it has been.

The value of what marrow we extract from life is only ever up to us. But whatever that value is seems so regularly displaced by a contemporary, sociologically-imposed perception of necessary aesthetical participation—it’s heavy . . . and constant. We’ve been drugged . . . distracted . . . hypnotized . . . enslaved . . . to disregard any inclination for a non-prescribed obedience to our unique enjoyments.

Yet, despite our pseudo-global, progressively dystopian, neo-liberal, end-stage-capitalistic hellscape, there’s a refreshing recapture of wasteful frolic as our distracted fascination wanes. Not all . . . or everywhere . . . but sometimes . . . and someplaces. Class solidarity, global empathy—humanity’s desperate gasp for a lovingly-collective compassion fending off those frightened by the curtain being pulled back—are remanifesting (I presume what empathetic envy we bear for our indigenous/aboriginal contemporaries and their ancestors—those of us that have it—blossoms from some hopeless desire to participate with the planet, one another, the life around us, and ourselves in such a way instead of conquering it).

It’s fun to revisit what I once thought clever, even if it reads poorly, incoherent, incapacitated, or boring. I think, though, considering now’s all, I’ll return . . . even if only for individually exercisable psychological-preservation and the maintenance of primitive practices.

Maybe the marrow’s richer now.

“The greatest gains and values are farthest from being appreciated. We easily come to doubt if they exist. We soon forget them. They are the highest reality.”

-Thoreau, Walden

-Matt

Title quote from Fit for an Autopsy’s Black Mammoth