Sometimes,

I'm just sorry that it's all already done.

For now, I know that this is the only way it all gets done.

Each moment must be experienced.

Every moment must be experienced.

I am doing my part, being my part.

Before the end, I will have been all.

I will be all.

To do so properly

is to forget that there is a proper way to do so, to forget that I am doing so. In forgetting, I become what I knew at conception, prior to my first thought. Knowledge gathered since - the substance of my cage, now my vestibule; the building of my prison, now my vessel; the awareness of my self as being separate from my awareness - my relinquishing being in order to possess.

So, one foot always descending, having already descended and in front of the other, upon a curb that does not exist, within the only moment I've ever known, led me to forget it all and to once again become it. I came here to describe what I am able to remember of it upon returning, upon becoming something - and, hence, becoming this something else. I'll continue to dive in and to return with the account I am able to convey, what description of eternity will fit through these finite mediums, language and my self - in this the vessel, the vestibule that is what you know me to be.

Dark, dissatisfaction, and denying sleep.

I don't want to turn this computer off - it's the only light in the room. I don't fear the dark; I loathe the stillness that it will inevitably bring to my mind, and that sleep will snuff this small, steady flame of a resolute and wordless thought. Nothing in particular is on my mind, but I am aware of a specific, unidentifiable regret - and I know, through experience, that I will forget the feeling by morning, and fail to recall it throughout the day as I cope with the demands and boredom that my working hours will contain. If I do, in rare, still moments that ambush me during days not wholly filled by routine, become aware of this dissatisfaction that I, in shame, refuse to behold, my attention will flit away as I flee the danger present in that unwelcome thought. Tomorrow night, or another soon after, I will face the same denied desire, the very same struggle to denounce my belief that I stubbornly fail to attain something that I long to be and certainly possess the potential to aspire to. I'm befuddled by this asinine, elusive, persistent goading of my peace of mind by something formless within me; is this an antic I've resorted to in a desperate attempt to cling to familiar unhappiness? I'll roll these dice, god damn it, and in doing so fly free from my own grasp with them.