Epitaph.

"Last week I had the strangest dream,
Where everything was exactly how it seemed"

Language is a prison. Words are a jail cell. Expression is so limited. Being an artist is a cry for help, trying to see and paint the world in such a way for people to understand when we can't even understand it for ourselves. We all fail in the worst way. Philosophy is putting depth into an environment that is deeper than our human minds are given ability to comprehend. Our minds fire stimuli and synapses to give us a calculated formula of reason and purpose, which give us conclusions and answers that are strictly based on opinion, when opinion itself is our lethal injection. Our calculated formulas and reasons for purpose amount to simple thoughts. Direction is misdirection, decision is obsolete. Being an artist is a cry for help, trying to see and paint ourselves in such a way for us to understand, the art of expression of self. We can't even understand ourselves. Were we ever meant to? A definition of description is to put an idea into different words for one to understand more clearly, when the idea is indescribable in the first place. Even the simplest of things. What is simplicity? Does the aspect even exist, or did we create it? A description of definition is to use words to give something meaning, when meaning itself is just a formulated calculation that appeared out of nothing. What even is nothing? Nothing can't be nothing...or we wouldn't be able to express it. So clearly nothing is just another something that we have just slapped a label on. Knowledge brings nothing but hopelessness. But living in a world with no understanding brings awe as well as confusion. We were never truly meant to understand...we aren't made to know. We are all wanderers. This body...these senses...they all fall short of truth. No matter how long you stare into an open field, you can only see so far. We can't comprehend what is beyond our own vision, and our imaginations cannot create any sense of truth for what is beyond our senses, so why do we even try to find anything? Do we even know what we are looking for? Half the time, do we even know that we are searching? The logical thing would be to give up...but would admitting defeat be as unsatisfying as searching for a lifetime and coming up with a question mark to put on an epitaph? Is satisfaction even a real event? Probably just another comforting defense mechanism that our brain specifically calculated and formulated to give us reason and purpose to something that is unexplainable. Words and language, is by far the greatest imprisonment that one can find. The only difference between Shakespeare and John Doe is having the ability to arrange art in such a way that is recognized. But recognition leaves us with just another thing to comprehend. Slowly, extending our confusion and failure. We wonder why the greatest artists commit suicide. Those souls, are probably the closest that have ever gotten to interpreting the infinite and indefinable concept of interpretation of infinite and indefinable concepts. We all fail outrageously. We all fall short. We are finitely impossible creatures. We are teased by sense. We haven't even come close to experiencing anything of substantial truth. This monologue itself is a simple admittance of defeat. in 20 years, I do not understand. If I live for another 1000, this would not change in the slightest. Rest In Peace, humanity, and God be with us all. That may be the only hope that we, as people, will ever experience in this unexplainable phenomenon we call life. It may be the closest we get to touching almighty. We're nothing more than fools and whores, and sad highs. But these are just words, aren't they? This is just a piece of my prison, that tonight I share with you.

My life sentence.