Untitled, because I'm that mysterious.

What is it about sitting in the forest at night that makes one feel like a feather falling from the highest to the lowest point, stuck in some perpetual zig-zag down the wind currents as gravity pushes one down towards the inevitable end? It is so quiet, the trees seem to look down at you, or rather where you are sitting, knowing that soon you will have to leave, but they will be there for hundreds of years, aging and aging but still remaining, while you age and die, wither away into the dust that always lies at the end of any path. The silence, it looms over you like a massive piano full of weights, pushing you down some sort of hole of terror. Yet this terror almost feels good. Maybe terror is not the right word for it, maybe it shall be referred to as awe. Yes, it is the awe that is that impending disaster that is the piano, it is awe that forces you to contemplate the futility of existence, your tiny-ness in the grand scheme of things, because there is one, random and unfair as it maybe be there is one. It is in the forest at night where one discovers such amazing things as out of body experiences and meditation. You levitate towards some higher state of being, one unoccupied by you until just now, which gives one a feeling of power, yes, power, joy, now it is you they awe! But then you drop, fast, and you plummet off of your throne. You think of something else, somebody else, what they said, or did, what they looked like, and your concentration is broken, you rub your head into confusion as you ponder the rationality of what just happened and you think it was maybe all just a dream, maybe this is all just a dream, what if we are just small particles attached to the buttocks of some dust mite that makes its home under the couch of some poor middle class family in which the father figure is named Bob, and Bob is rather allergic to dust mites, and so as the mite crawls up and up, it flits its way to the top of the couch, jumps into the air, flies over near Bob, and then: sneeze, the forceful ejection of air and snot and who knows what else is so strong that the mite is flung, flung across the room and smashes into the wall and dies, and there is the apocalypse, presented to you by the fine ladies of the 23rd Street Brothel and Playhouse. The stars peer confusedly as you peer confusedly at them, wondering how a ball of gas remains in such a shape with such volatile nuclear reactions going on inside them, why don’t they explode like a woman on her period and fling themselves like the dust mite against some cosmic wall, and the stars wonder how a collection of bones muscles and blood vessels and whatnot packaged up in a big fancy bag of skin with some hair in a few places retains its shape instead of just slumping into nonexistence and how that somehow breeds consciousness. So take off your clothes, dance nude through the forest, be free, etc. Scream like there’s no tomorrow, because there probably isn’t, and who gives a shit anyways, what is tomorrow that means so much that you always have to be worrying about it and therefore cannot enjoy it when it comes because tomorrow never comes, right when you think it is almost hear it recedes into the distant future, once again to torture you because you cannot control it, you cannot control your own fate or destiny, you are destined to be eaten up by the worms just like the rest of us, decomposing until all that is left of you is a tombstone, some bones and a few certificates certifying that you, indeed, did exist, because that really matters, it matters so much that you existed, you, a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot in a tiny dot that is the visible universe, the limit of what we can perceive, because what we can perceive becomes larger and larger every moment, but what we cannot does the same, the vast universe of mystery.