Empty!

To reconcile the possibility of anything forming against the reality of suffering, a source of great hope and great hopelessness. If I can imagine it, then it can exist? And all I am to imagine is change from the current mean?

Reason is limited, space is constant yet indecipherable as anything more than a temporal close-to-truth. Truth is a playground.

To kill myself may just be a waste of time. How could anything possibly get better in what I conceive as reality? Or individually, am I to assume death is some kind of rest?

Of infinite imaginations, I see a world without suffering which implies its antithesis of a world full of suffering. Will I use the myths of time to reconcile infinite suffering into historicity? Do I consider suffering too much, the other person too much? Probably not, the individual experiences the attempted-truths of societal suffering.

It feels like I'm going somewhere dark, bad. I feel it physically, and I understand the irrational of the gradual, of nodes following nodes, descending into what is simply a perception; it's all stupid. There is no need to highlight the sharp points, there is no need to perceive what is happening as awful, it is in-fact all in my mind. This is a narrative.

My awareness of the plasticity of these markers doesn't appear to matter, I really do not want to be here but I am, I am fixed association -- the closest thing to absolute truth. I suffer because of phenomena, not noumena. Reality appears hopeless, yes in it's material form, in it's widespread suffering, but mostly in it's repetition. Reality, the noumenal reality doesn't exist for me because I cannot comprehend it.

Death is no way out, human reason even permeates death, the deep sleep. Temporal reality makes no illusion of the possibility of infinite repetition, a thousand million lives, the incomprehensible complexities of which are most closely described as multiplicities unknowable. And this just another useless extension of logic, the great fear is not chaos but credible, concrete, permanent order.

I still like connection. I still like to talk, I still like affection. Is my inclination to share my hopelessness just another attempt at finding hope?