Pointless Banter

Featured image: Jacques Louis David, The Death of Socrates

The perfect essay will never be written. An essay that has it all, that covers every aspect of everything, or at least manages to pinpoint and elaborate on the chief ideas behind everything. And by ‘everything’, I mean everything that exists. And everything that doesn’t. The absolute everything-ness.

No, I am not high / stoned.

Sometimes, if I see someone walking at a distance, I wish it were him, even when I know it isn’t going to be him. Honestly, I don’t even want it to be him. Look at me contradicting myself. The ‘him’ in this could be anyone. It is ‘x’ right now. It’ll be ‘y’ tomorrow and so on. Maybe someone new every day. “I fall in love just a little – a little bit – every day with someone new,” like Hozier puts it.

Even if one were to try writing the perfect essay, where would they (#theyisokay) even start? What language would one write it in? How do you know which language is the language? What if that language hasn’t even been made yet? Or what if it is dead? What if it is made up of musical notes – maybe even musical notes played on a specific instrument, to make things even more complex – and not words?

No, I am not high / stoned. I believe in abstinence from alcohol, in fact. Well, for the most part.

Really, the first few words of Bohemian Rhapsody sum up everything about everything: Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide; no escape from reality.

What mood would the perfect essay have? Would it be sad? Happy? Euphoric? Neutral? Then again, is there any such thing as neutral? Depressing? Blunt and terse? No wait, those ain’t moods.

Sometimes I wish our thoughts had a digital recorder. Like a voice recorder. Only for thoughts instead of voice.

If one’s thoughts could be recorded and published like books, everyone would be a great author.

Then which book/s would you read? There’d be exponentially more books then than there currently are. You’d never be able to complete them. The current number itself, in fact. You’d never be able to read even the tiniest fraction of the current number, even.

The perfect essay will never be written.

No I am not high / stoned. Just sleepy and honest. And me.