a place to put words

all my responsibilities hit me in one moment, and i feel like im suffocating. i love everything that i do, i just wish they didnt tire me as much as they do. and once i do them i love them, its just... this feeling. all i want to do is climb into a fetal position and feel every possible moment until i can't.  i think that's what i was always meant to do, be at peace and coexist with the cacophony of existence. i just want to count every leaf and name every frog, but i can't. the eye of the hurricane is so beautiful. it just stings. there is absolutely nothing i can do about it, because that's life. this is just how the universe is. guess i gotta just keep moving. 

“If all is for naught, then why bother writing it down? Caught in a vicious circle, ensnared in the logical absurdities of awkward self-awareness. It seems there are one of two options: either speak to this situation, or remain silent. The writer’s failure is that they know they should choose the latter, but cannot help attempting the former. Writers (and readers… when there are readers…) console themselves by naming this failure: an apology, a confession, a testimony, a treatise, a history, a biography, a life. But the continual accumulation of that-which-cannot-be-put-into-words always points back to this one basic realization – that, when it comes to human beings, silence is the most adequate form of expression. There are, then, two paths. Ultimately writers dream of taking neither path, leaving all paths for the forest. But it’s just a dream.” - Eugene Thacker, "Infinite Resignation"

this world wasnt made for us, and some day humans as a species will disappear. and the forests will grow back and forget what we did to them. and time will go on. yet somehow this process does not scare me, i find it comforting in a cruel and funny way. i am but one part of a larger cosmos. an assemblage of stardust and small desires and romances and fears that somehow has the opportunity, if only for a brief moment, exist among all things. maybe it is a divine torture that i was born, the odds for the circumstances of one's existence to be as such is so astronomically large that it seems like only some diety could have arranged it. often i pondered "is this opportunity to exist in the world as such a curse or a blesseing?" yet now the question seems irrelevant. as i write this a squashed a bug, as it got in the way of my spelling and seemed insignificant enough to do without losing sleep over. yet thinking now, what are we to the universe in that case? but bugs, no, mere