À Propos Of The Falling Snow

You will tell me, gentlemen, how inappropriate and undesirable my following comments are, and how only a fool, a desparate lunatic would think up and share such things with others.

Well, shame me, and laugh at me, elegant gentlemen, for I shall write my thoughts down to the minute detail, so that any stumbling idiot such as yourself can perhaps read my words, and catch a glimpse at what I mean truly, as far as mere words go;

A few days ago I went outside to the stark white winter, and as I started shoveling I saw a vision of myself, as a busy lump of flesh lost in a very dark place. I realized just how insanely dependant on our senses we living beings are. I pictured, in my momentary EPIPHANY, the true state of things around my struggling figure; a void of energies, vibrations, only accessible through my body's many organs, constructing this familiar world. I confronted, as I was shoveling the snow, my blind devotion to subjective reality; how aleniated I felt of my trust in my senses, my faith in the familiarity of things, and my shaky uncertain place among it.

Almost unbelievable how accurately our senses construct the world around us, no matter how subjective they are. The heat of my fingers transfering to the unrelenting breeze, my blood retreating inward, the ethereal huffs of my now visible breathing, the cristalized water droplets falling featherly, joining countless infinities in the immaculate insulative blankets that I was tiring myself to remove, how futile.

Sight! Our eyes, light, the sun and a million millions lightbulbs, candles, neon signs and glowing billboards, to see, see, I must see! The darkness frightens me, where anything lies, yet all this light isn't really there. Mere instances of information reaching our nervous system, how surreal, how absurd, and for what purpose, and how exactly, one must wonder.

You're telling me, as undebatable as two plus two equal four, that energy particles are launched from the sun, and travel through unimaginable distance to be bounced around until inevitably they reach my eyes my pupils my brain, allowing me to see whatever reflected its light, allowing me to see the world? See the falling snow, the gray covered sky and the towering pine trees frozen in time, my busy hands, shaking by cold and innate doubts, surely. A phenomena only possible under the coalescence of the fundamental laws of time, and the physical reality, its energies, motions, somewhow persisting and leading from one thing to the other in perfect causality-

(My deepest apologies, this is turning in a grotesque word salad, I'll wrap it up)

My point, gentlemen, isn't to frighten or entertain, with my peculiar views on existence, but to simply observe (the irony) to observe, gentlemen, THE SUBLIME AND THE BEAUTIFUL.

As a romantic, striving idealist, as a creature of emotions, as a witness of reality for more than a quarter of a century, I shall write down these scribblings, this gibberish in this soon to be forgotten notebook, mere flailing of limbs in a purple void, screaming in an insulated box;

Perhaps truth is better as a distant ideal after all.

Trust in me as you trust your eyes and your frigid fingers, read my words with such admiration that you bewildered gentlemen can only ejaculate in amazement.

And, if you excuse me at last gentlemen, on this most eccentric image of self satisfaction in vain intellectual pursuits, I wish you farewell and welcome,

gentlemen, so certain that the falling snow does indeed fall outside of perception, ah Ah AH!