… and the normality of every thing in existence being stationary, moving, all the time, the intricacy and delicate complexity of the beauty of ugly, the balance of chaos, chaos to order, order to chaos. Ironies that flow from everything, the irony that something can exist of pure love and be split down the middle to branch into hate. Hate without love is nothing, nothing without something is everything, and everything without nothing ceases to be. Yet there is nothing, in all of it, in everything the only thing that cannot be is nothing, yet it is. The irony of a sentient creature, unable to cope with it’s own power. Knowledge without wisdom. Incapable of processing, yet capable of creating processes. All things split, all light into dark. A universe flushed into itself, yet thrust back out, defying all of its own rules in the process. A mind that knows, yet cannot fathom any of it. Faith based existence. It exists, the mind exists, can the mind be trusted? Born in aether. Ethereal, yet somewhat solid, spinning vortex, with the dark connotations that it brings. All light shooting outwards from darkness. Dark, absent of light. Nothing. Light containing all. All hopes and dreams exist within the light, hoping to be able to push forward, climb and climb and climb. Fighting the gravity. The natural gravity of life, pulling downwards. Living to die or dying to live? The obsession with the end, unexplained, driving the very foundations of human based society, totally affecting all aspects, ecology, economy, love, hate, laughing, crying. Teasing for entertainment, unable to find emotion based around other ideas. Only the end. Too much information. Everybody so weak and fragile inside, unable to cope. You lead your own path, but life’s gravity is the true master of destiny. Free will only an idea. An idea has no stake in existence, no meaning, no weight. Idea is absence. Where does it tether itself? The mind, the body? What impact does it have on any particle. Any molecule. No impact. How can nothing impact? Absence colliding with absence? Incapable of processing. All thought gravitates towards the complete lack of thought. Incomprehensible. Nonsensical, yet hilarious. A perfect creation. Fine tuned perfection to a degree not even thought of. No before, no after, only in the middle, the center can there exist such ‘ideas.’ To what avail is the contemplation? So harsh and uncompromising, the simultaneously strong and weak mind only able to realize itself, such great power, such beautiful creation, yet can only go so far. Will only destroy itself, process its ‘ideas.’ Put the ‘idea’ of value into it, when there is no scale to weigh such an object. Totally untouched by dimension, but still possessing a dimension itself. The irony of life. All is. Everything is different, but the same. Always. You are, if you are, but only through faith can you acknowledge. There is no proof. There is nothing. But it is. And will be. Until the beginning brings the end, and the end creates the beginning. Ideas that cannot hope to be brought into the light, a light that exists and burns brighter than anything comprehended by the human’s mind. Only validated through the desires of the soul. Whether a dark soul on its way to destruction, marred and covered in its own depression, its own inability to understand, cope, or manage its own power. Unnatural. An overload of itself. Given way to the inevitable end. But what is after that? Out of nothing, into nothing, yet always is. As perpetual as the living universe that has been constructed to allow it.