Tuesday, 2 October 2007

To begin...

Herein lies the discharge of a brain in unidentifiable yet seemingly terminal sickness in that it frequently does not do what it is told nor what would be of any use to me. It muses over what is pointless, irrevocable or downright meaningless except when it ponders on what appears essentially meaningful but later reasons is actually as pointless as everything else. It searches for definition where none could possibly exist. It strains for a logic which it could not plausibly attain or understand. It seeks knowledge but finds only profound lack. It tries to take solace but is never fulfilled. It indulges in pleasure only to find vice. It does this every minute of the live-long day and makes me very tired indeedIt can be made to switch off only if watching Holly Oaks. But Holly Oaks, in turn, has the ability to make me feel angry in a uniquely futile way. Except when I reflect on my own work, in which case it gives me brief respite from self-flagellation. That is the essential curse of Holly Oaks.

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