04-11-2012, 06:20 PM
I hyper-analyse everything in short outbursts of writing, this is one of them.
"Meaning is a human idea, a periodically practical application of instinct and emotion. But whereas once we required it amidst the haze of natural selection, we have transcended the natural cycle and manipulated it, stagnating in this “meaning†in the process. Meaning is no longer a requirement, it has been watered down into a basic desire. We have grown so used to the idea of meaning, of magical thinking - the idea that any little coincidence could warrant our own potential serendipity.
It seems we give most meaning to the relationships we have with other people. I understand this, briefly, but in as just a brief yet frequent a time I feel no relation to this sentiment. I have isolated myself in so many ways, and have managed to construct an ideal with which to throw at people socially, so as to keep up appearances in order to achieve certain goals and to tithe my own social hunger over, however ultimately meaningless it may appear now.
I don’t know if I believe in Love. I believe in a subjective desire that is essentially aimless, but settles around the ideas we project onto people at our emotional whims.
The more I think about life, the more I look at it, the more hopeless I become. I scrounge for meaning to apply, and find it in bursting and brilliantly light-filled pockets of instance that I hold to and obsess over. However, I seem to saturate these, and magnify that meaning I’ve found to abstraction, analysing it until there’s nothing left to experience.
I want to be given a meaning.
Maybe this is why people turn to religion, or to pop culture. To be given meaning.
But I have to give one to myself, if I want to be Greater."
"Meaning is a human idea, a periodically practical application of instinct and emotion. But whereas once we required it amidst the haze of natural selection, we have transcended the natural cycle and manipulated it, stagnating in this “meaning†in the process. Meaning is no longer a requirement, it has been watered down into a basic desire. We have grown so used to the idea of meaning, of magical thinking - the idea that any little coincidence could warrant our own potential serendipity.
It seems we give most meaning to the relationships we have with other people. I understand this, briefly, but in as just a brief yet frequent a time I feel no relation to this sentiment. I have isolated myself in so many ways, and have managed to construct an ideal with which to throw at people socially, so as to keep up appearances in order to achieve certain goals and to tithe my own social hunger over, however ultimately meaningless it may appear now.
I don’t know if I believe in Love. I believe in a subjective desire that is essentially aimless, but settles around the ideas we project onto people at our emotional whims.
The more I think about life, the more I look at it, the more hopeless I become. I scrounge for meaning to apply, and find it in bursting and brilliantly light-filled pockets of instance that I hold to and obsess over. However, I seem to saturate these, and magnify that meaning I’ve found to abstraction, analysing it until there’s nothing left to experience.
I want to be given a meaning.
Maybe this is why people turn to religion, or to pop culture. To be given meaning.
But I have to give one to myself, if I want to be Greater."
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
