Isolation is the only way to retain sanity, solitude is the only true path to growth, comprising oneself to others standards leads to naught but destruction.
The need to rebuild the fragile pillars of ones mind is incorrectly viewed as misanthropy.
The mind thinks in too many concentric or vicious circles and at the same time, cul-de-sacs. The universe never stops expanding, and that in itself is incomprehensible - and then that leads to the question, why give us the knowledge to know how shallow the pool of our intelligence is - if it can be called such - that there will always, always be the unknown and the incomprehensible and levels of existence that we can only dream of, that will always elude, a hair-breath away, shielded by an impenetrable glass. The shackles of humanity. It’s mockery, sheer mockery, and God is laughing at me and my ignorance.
Years ago a much smaller (hollow recognition that once upon a time there was such a thing as small in the world, instead of too large, too much) girl-child used to cry herself into fits in the early insomnia stages because she could not comprehend that the universe was never-ending. What comes after that? If it ends, what is after that? Blackness, blackness. Comforted eventually by the minds natural dulling and smoothing - the world is a painting, a map, God is the painter. When a human dies, God paints them over. When a natural disaster occurs, God made the mistake of flicking some explosion or tsunami coloured paint - or maybe it was on purpose. God changes the colours for the seasons. This all occurs in a white room and God is a white man with a white beard in a white suit with a palette and paintbrushes, controlling the universe of all his colour, and the room has neither doors nor windows nor any light source but it’s so bright. But what’s outside the room? What comes after that? Blackness, blackness.
I just want to scream that I despise it all, especially you, and especially me.
