Closed the doors of future have become- ignorant fool

Mere days until the time finally arrives for the calling of the century to cascade the fine light of glory upon the sick and twisted vines of faces that form through the thickets; they show themselves, expressions showing with the blowing of the wind and the rustling of the surrounding nature: their expressions are raught with agony and melancholy and stupidity- of slavery screams their eyes without the gleam of future expectations but of losslessness, the despair that comes across the faces to which nothing matters but the demand achieved by their hands so that the other's hands may not fall upon them; the hands formed by the protruding brush and the scattered rocks tell the story of days overglorified: seeking the sanctuary of idealism for the sake of escapism upon its present surroundings- weeds, dust, insects, red sun; life is only brought to fruition through negatives of its surroundings, it is not real unless the unreal is what the real becomes; its love is only bestowed upon the unnatural to further escape its own, to lose sight of reality and dilude the identity with the object of the given unnatural- with such an action as part of its continuous routines, it becomes an exile to its own, seperating further the mind and the body: the seperation at its culminated state transmutates itself into further idealism where the shapes in mind are the closest to the body and the shapes of the body are of transparent features which constitute nothing of substance: this is religion.

So masturbate in idealism and symbolism to push yourself away from the reality, the stark reality of the weeds and the dust and the insects and the blood red sun. Everything is grey and melancholy- nothing is complete and nothing fits and everything doesn't taste as it should while everything is rougher than expected. The television doesn't give the right color or doesn't have the right angle or has a glare; the shoe fits but doesn't provide comfort; the sun is too bright or too drab. Instead, you want to evade all these inconsistences and sprint into the idealism of God or spirits or spaghetti monster. I will admit, idealism is so easy to go to when faced with the grey of reality, but when when you evaluate your life and realize that it was all used to veil your eyes from everything, you realize what a fool you were. Nothing has ultimate meaning. If it did, we would all have attained the same meaning to specific events. My life will end and it doesn't matter if I'm remembered for a second. I hope I'm forgotten because that's not why I live my life, to be remembered or to make a difference- I live my life because I weigh the pleasures of living over the alternative(s) everyday, and living seems to keep getting higher points.

Everyone wants to be so mindful of their rememberance factor or how big of a difference they'll make on future generations, or the allowances they'll be able to leave for their family... what a joke that all really amounts to. Selfish ends are in all of those minds that conduct such thoughts: they want to be thought of when even their minds are gone. They want the perfect spot for their coffin and their headstone so their family can come see them and then remember all the good times and the bad times and laughs and cries and moments. All of that is completely superfluous.

I never think about the dead. THEY DON'T MATTER ANYMORE! THEY DON'T EXIST! MOVE FORWARD! LOOK TO NOW. THERE IS NO FUTURE BUT THE PRESENT. NOTHING IN THE FUTURE CAN BE THOUGHT UPON!

Wait... but I can order my checkbook and plan for the future with such an action, right? No. You are not planning for the future with such an action but using the present and facilitating time towards ordering a checkbook which you EXPECT in the future. It could not show up or it could. It doesn't matter what actually occurs because you are in the present and lack any capactity to tell which side of the die will hit. It is not the future that you look to, but the present you use.