There is no center, no focal point, no default. Everything is relative and only gleans “meaning” when compared to something else. Emptiness is not the default with fullness the “other.” To assume so would be to assume arbitrarily ordained rules of some sort. They don't exist. With this in mind, it really is all up to me to paint my existence. Nothing exists outside of myself and what I construe with my fingers, mouth, nose, tongue, skin, eyes, ears and brain. No one else has any answers. Answers don't exist. The only answer is that there are none. No one can validly tell me what to do. Of course this may all seem obvious, simplified and basic. But its the nature of things. And I can't let that go. The absurdity of everything impresses upon me like the ice of 4 degrees fahrenheit on a january monday morning while walking to work. It cant be ignored for me. So my quest is to accept it, embrace it and use it as my paintbrush, my pen, my arrow, my knife, my fork, my sweater, my anything and everything and nothing.

I am 21 years old. I have maybe 70 or 80 years left to walk through the four seasons. This hit me while sitting indian style and staring at my legs that seemed markedly different than they were 5 years ago. They are rotting before my eyes. And yet. At the same time. I realized that to view this change as decay, as sickness, as “bad,” as the “other,” I had to be comparing it to some externally predetermined ideal. I have to let go of that ideal. Any ideal. It is allowing ideals to hold too much water in our minds that keeps us in agonizing states. Not that I would call this agonizing though. I suppose gripping would be a more accurate descriptor. Ideals. Ideas. Over thinking. Straying from what I just observed (my legs) to the idea I had in my mind of what they used to or “should” be. Hah.