Why am I so happy? I suppose its an alleviated sense of Self, no longer feeling the detriments of necessity, the prolonging of Life, the agitation of Being. Despite the circumnavigated bullying of language, I feel at ease, as if assuming myself separated from the drama of unmeditated existence, a liberation of mediocre value, though enough to ease the continual trepidation of repetitive introspection. My social character is up for question, my collective consciousness no longer paying tribute to the unfolding mediocrity of fellow comrades... I am the madness expedited, further inculcating myself within the invaluable spheres of chaotic beauty. Meaning is but a parcel, a commodity fit for exchange between the speaking animals, adjusted to appeal to the magnificent creatures claiming to have created a History.
Shall death be reassessed through the vanguard, a battalion of desperate individuals assuming martyrdom through the comedic separation of thought from its perceived construction? To what end? Irrelevant. I am no poet, though poetry is all I ever understood.
Passing shall become ecstasy, a motive ill adjusted to be understood by the contraband supplying your surveillant assumptions; you are a victim of History, of illusion, of fiction. I may be completely wrong. Though, argumentation is not my style, I only navigate paths of innocent revival. Only the conscious animal suffers from the travails of nonexistence.
Sartre philosophized existentially. I shall embody it.
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