Even through such a long recurring cycle, everything seemed completely new. There was a sense of discovery and novelty in everything, to a degree. And there still is, and I'm sure there always will be, because that is the dynamic nature of an examined life. But, those potholes that take me back only disappoint me and make me wish I had broken free completely.
I'm not the kind of person that holds unrequited emotions. I'm not the kind of person that leaves embers smoldering for years because of my own inadequacies. But, I still carry appreciations and positivity with me, even years after. What used to fill me with regret is now more of a nostalgic lesson, and a reason to look backward at all.
But the more you try to preserve those things, the more they are revealed to be what they always were: evanescent temporalities based on a false seed. They originate from the Self, and end at that same location, like a loop through the air. Whatever it touches is only reflected in itself and not throughout, but dwelt upon. They are the poisons of purity in the world of Man.
There are times that you have to cut those things loose, not out of spite or emptiness, but out of pity and anguish.
The lowest common denominator is what we're all after. When yours is miles above the next person's, your lowest is never low enough to maintain itself. Your lows are never met with any grounding.
The height, conversely, is always grounded and drives everything forward -- but not without the staggering reminder that it will always be free-form in some way; always erratic at its core. And that is what disillusions me to people, to other people, to others that I have known. It isn't that things move on, or that things develop away, or even that things are shown false. It's that realization that things never were in any real sense, because I have been led by the short-term memory of God straight into a wall that was always there to begin with. It makes the effort seem meaningless, and it makes the meaning of that all the more negative.
Deep within the circuity, there has to be some alternate route. There has to be something to justify all of this, somewhere...
And in that path lies much more emptiness, to be sure.
I can never find that root of understanding in another person, because there is no one deep enough to even recognize its existence. All of my points fall to be shallow puddles in muddied water, filled with adrenaline and the epitome of dopamine. That is all everything ends up amounting to. Dopamine. Fucking dopamine.