Life Is.

It is strange to me that people have a problem with feeling small. I guess it is not difficult to understand, on a psychological level, how the internal battle with insignificance can be exhausting, like an army of meaninglessness laying siege to the fortress of your mind, a war of attrition that can only last the length of your lifespan. If you wanna look at it negatively that is.
I realize that I am, relatively, immeasurably small. And I am fine with that. The only problem is that frankly, I'm bored. In the various stages of my growth in life I went through parallel perspectives on my fellow inhabitants. The progression is unimportant, as the point is in the variety. There was disgust, anger, shame, humor, hatred, love and a plethora (great word) of passionately reactionary sensations. But I took a minute to reflect, and I realized that the operative word was reactionary. With a more objective look, it became clear that what I was experiencing was passionate boredom. As horrendous the crimes, as despicable the acts, as violent and cruel and as hateful the people can be, as hard as love and kindness and creation and all the wonderful people can fight back, it all truncates at a certain part and just gets repetitive. So why was I still reacting?
The truth is, I'm tired. I'm tired of the bad, and I'm tired of the good. I'm weary of the need for these things. I want to reach up from my tiny speck in the universe with the arms of change and wrest this brilliant sphere from the monotonous tapestry of ancient clockwork, to prove with every step away from the familiar that time is merely a coincidence. That knowledge is inherently useless, as all things human are uselessly "inherent". We cast the matter of existence in the forge of our own perceptions, and when it cools it finds itself "defined", and thus a piece of itself is literally lost in translation. And with its new name, it is immediately a subject of our reality, an unwilling citizen of the Republic of Supposed Understanding. From there, we poke and prod and "learn" what we can about an object that we just tampered with, and deem that information "truth".
At the end of the day, it's just masturbation. Enjoyable, true. Convenient, natural, in some cases necessary; even healthy. But, it serves no purpose. Learning should be acquired in order to improve upon the quality of life, and for no other reason. And as soon as people realize that asking why is metaphorically allowing your mind to touch itself, I think they might relax a bit. And look around as the planet in my grasp drifts through "days" and "nights" of varying lengths, into the birthplace of creativity that is the unknown.
Because I don't care about your intelligence, or your logic, or your reason Spartan. I don't care about your synopsis upon reading my novel, I want to know how you felt while you were reading it. I don't want to listen as you list how life is beautiful, or miserable, or funny, or like a box of chocolates. All I want you to see is that Life Is, and that all attempts at description after that point should be done in private, during alone time (maybe with the radio or a loud fan on), and at a decent distance away from my bored tired ears.