Ramblings

A beginning. Ink flows, my mind spins, ceaseless - a gooey, meshy mix of images and words - the crest that was over the narrator's gate in Demian, the bird bursting forth from an egg, breaking its old home, it's old existence to pieces - a deep voice intones, "To be born is to destroy a world." Beginning is ending. Graham Greene's misspent youths, who burn down an old miser's house without even stealing his money; a joker's twisted face appears from the inferno - in the flames echoes - destruction is creation - rip the face off the world to find what's underneath.
I am Tolstoy, unable to imagine a life in which I do not view and review every action, every thought, every feeling, unable to imagine a life of contentment, satisfaction - a life where I but follow the rules, and do not question their existence. I have ceased to listen to the voices of purported logic and reason, to the sounds of men scribbling furiously for the "greater good" of their fellow men. I have turned from the truths of prophets and ministers. Instead I listen to the truths
which I find inside myself, which my blood whispers to me. Without, stars, within, blood, withoutin, twinings.