The Art of Saying Nothing in 500 words or less.

Like light and dark, what we love and hate are inextricably interwoven in the very fabric of the universe. The push and pull of that which we do and do not desire drives every waking moment in one way or another. It is natural to assume that all that is good and right with the world is each and eveyone's goal, but of course, this is not actually the case at all. Imbued with a survival instinct above all else, our reactions are not nearly as measured as we would like to believe. One needs a certain amount of leisure to formulate rationals for acts that are little more than blatant displays of selfishness or cruelty. For though our brutish spasms are just as vulgar and base with or without such explanation, somehow we deign to manifest elaborate philosophical concoctions to defang our desires after the dirty deeds are done.

Flashlights of the Gods

There's little to quibble on when counting blessings, lest one questions the benefit of anything that extends the torment of existence. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune notwithstanding, such bleating is best left to those whose with no taste for battle. For this twisted circus is jam-packed with conflict, both material and mental, awash in a tempest of desires straining for what small victory a memory can contain. What fine blessing can become a relentless struggle, born of tears and blood only to end in few words unheard before dust claims it's own? What window dressing validates these scenes of bearable cruelty, cast with impertinent clowns whose incomprehensible antics mock the very meaning of fulfillment in their hapless fumble for what tiny attentions quell their miseries for a moment? Blessings they may be though, if they ease this torturous tumult in any fashion, be it a mere flirty distraction from the ubiquitous horror or some kind of quaint accessory whose flair lends itself to such monstrous depictions. If there is there any glory in this decaying orbit, it lies in one's ability to set aside that which is not onslaught, and claim it as sacred, despite it's origin.

Yodelling for Dummies

Discovering a sense of purpose amidst the societal flotsam and jetsam of this modern age is oft an elusive object of desire, depending on one's discrimination. Upon stabilizing one's day-to-day survival mechanisms (a daunting task in and of itself), an individual faces the plethora of intricacies that make an insect colony look like the simplest of equations in comparison. Guided by ancestral hit-and-miss policies, personal preferences, and the limitations of one's immediate environment, one may foray into this morass of life-altering choices either armed to the teeth with knowledge, or blithely blind as a fool counting clouds.

Yet, the essence of this situation remains similar regardless of one's approach. Any cost/benefit analysis is deceptively comforting as the fool's glib optimism, when one considers how often a studied approach leads to circumstances just as unexpected and potentially unsatisfactory as any state of unpreparedness might. Still, whilst one wheedles one's way along their journey to Lord-knows-what, even a misguided sense of purpose provides said individual with a framework with which to cloak the ultimate randomness of the oncoming future. Accomplishment of a series of duties that lead to an expected conclusion aside, one must consider the basis for completing a task as a seperate effort.

Is thought is the substance of reality?

Reality requires a certain amount pf culpability on the part of the party establishing such as a state of being. Seemingly obvious, a participant often assumes the sense receptors of their corporal form is a rational basis with which one can grasp the standard model that presents itself as such. Interpretation of said reality is not the question here, rather the very existence of a collection of stimuli purporting to be that which is 'real'. Of course, like most concepts, reality must have an opposite, namely that which is 'unreal'. Clearly, the elimination of that which is unreal should leave us with only that which is real, unless like light and dark (or should I say 'light and not so much?'), varying degrees of each state exist in all situations. This conclusion, though inherently problematic logistically, is fairly sensible in relation to the idea that thoughts determine reality. Still, we are left with the disturbing inconclusiveness of exactly when and where something ceases to be real, or becomes real. Suddenly, the parental catchphrase, "Because I said so" looms large as a reasonable definer of what is, and is not, reality.

Unbelievability is the Hallmark of Truth

Naturally inclined to obsess upon that which right before our noses, we have a tendency to take in all other stimuli with an air of cognitive dissonance insofar as any effect said phenomena might have upon us in the future. The same could be said for our influence, be it physical or otherwise, on the surrounding environment. Whether we consider such interplay as vital or moot, it seems the essence of experience weaves along this vaguely defined line that divides 'us' from that which is 'not us'. Empirically, our experience begins and ends at the sensory receptors, with the interpretive mind hopefully organizing this information into an easily-digested mental meal that serves to nourish that which is basically non-physical, namely our thoughts. And whose soul doesn't wrest with the limitations of this material scenario? The world, like words upon a page, encoded with cryptic symbolism, defies simplistic interpretation. How learned must an entity be to decipher mysteries seemingly beyond comprehension? Thus, we share the most basic explanations based not in truth, but a rather shadowy mixture of myth and morality. This compounds the natural obfuscation of said dilemma with yet another sheath of interpretive abstraction, which often is mistaken for the thing itself. To 'understand' is to understand only that which is comprehensible within this construct, an ephemeral ladder to the stars if there ever was one.

Wheedling for everlasting glee

Faced with the magnificence of all that is noticeable in the general vicinity, the absolute truth still remains somewhat negligible in comparison. Reflections aside, this presentation overwhelms puny perception in its meticulous omnipresence. For what am I, but a fleck of synapse flatulence glorified by my own petard? Nary a questionable assessment flogs my consciousness as I surmise the situation at hand.

Casual gestures can invigorate your presentation.

This wisdom goes beyond the beginning and into the very winnowing of sin. Therein lies the quintessential rub of the ages, the very heart of all that is holy, so forth and so on. This world's friction bears witness to the unforgiving conditions we wrest with daily. What soundness in our girth gives us allowance to ponder such origins? Perhaps only the scant flicker of an eyelid can contain the endless stream of interpretation that is existence in this waking life. But soft, what struggle from yonder scene beckons to thee? 'Tis only one that you have brought with you.

"Oh yeah?" blurted Snurkle, balancing his Vietnam-era B-15 bomber fuselage between his glue-splattered cephalopod-like appendages. "I bet YOU think EVERYONE just loves your psuedo-spiritual claptrap splattering against the walls of their ideologies!"

"Um, it's not quite like that..."

"Maybe for YOU, but for the rest of us carbon-based life forms," Snurkle hesitated, turned and spat an unidentifiable object into the next room, then returned to his diatribe. "With such sanctimonious drivel the writer is literally urinating on the reader. I'll have no part of it!"

"Snurkle, don't you think you're overstating it a bit?"

The model plane part snapped with a loud report. the beast stared at the broken bits of plastic in his hands.

"I really don't think so," he said sighed, "but if you insist, I'll downgrade it to farting on the reader."

"Gee, I feel less cornholed than ever! Thank you ever so deeply, mollusk-breath!"

"I'm just trying to save us all some time, Flintstone," Snurkle replied," After all, my stock is down, and chillin' with you ain't exactly a futures investment, despite the fact I am a product of your imagination."