It is difficult to begin writing lacking inspiration. Inspiration is what compels me to write, compels in the sense that it evokes a NEED to express my thoughts in writing. The only thing that I find really compelling is my own sadness, which ensures my writing is boring. It is all largely the same, the thoughts already having been completely digested time and again, the juice squeezed out of them. All pathways driven to the end, all roads exhausted. It is an entirely inward intellectual exercise, which festers in inaction and indecision. The banality of expansion, of outwardness, is tiresome; the rapacity and impertinence of everyday action is oppressive. The infinitude of the mind, the endless fractality of subjectivity, is sublime.

I feel like a living cliché. I see the roteness of my behaviors which I employ to make things easier. I walk around in a daze, embarrassed to be alive, to take up space. Ashamed to be reduced to mere organic matter which can be summarized in an introductory biochemistry class. To take up space is an aberration. It is our original sin which cannot be cleansed.

To ascribe moral value to the robotic actions of a hairless ape - what could be more arrogant?

But I will again snap out of it, I will return to the slow decay and the arbitrariness; I will even enjoy it at times. But I will never really believe in it, except in the strictly pragmatic sense.