I tell myself that I don't care. That whatever happens happens and I'll live with it.
But the worry doesn't stop there. It continues like a perpetual motion machine. Powered by what ifs and what abouts. There's an endless stream of tumult and incubation, ideas and footprints, fostering and nurturing. I feel my mind swirling out of control and become dizzy with probability.
Like Poe's "Nevermore" it repeats its significance. Whatever.
It's the pile driver that breaks down the gate of stagnant thought. That pulls the plug and spirally drains the river of wrought thought.
When I write, I do so half way from reason, half way from inspiration. I mean I try to pair up wordings and meanings that aren't cliche, haven't been rattled about ad nauseum, like the overkill of the modern mass media. And sometimes, I just have to say it anyway.
Because in the right perspective, it matters not. None of any of this matters. We're specs of space dust in the measure of time, hurtling along at the speed of life. And when we're gone, the earth will go on. Perhaps new life will miraculously spring from the polluted oceans. Or maybe it will visit via visiting asteroid. Even when the sun burns out, the earth burns up and is sucked into the sun, or the sun collapses and sucks the entire galaxy into a black hole. Even then.
Because there will be something else. There will always be something else.
And it won't matter. It won't mean anything more than what it is, and even that is insignificant. Immortality awaits all light and energy, but change is the only constant. Putrid or fair, just or delinquent, it all exists in the flow of the ever morphing infinity.
I'm left with little time to continue this endeavor. Whatever. Life riles the patience and draws bile from the spleen, haunting and taunting as you try to prioritize. Whatever. You can do it now, or do it later. But it must be done.
Just try and enjoy yourself.