unrivaled assiduity

I have stumbled upon a diaphanous mire, one which i had no intention of discovering. It has been difficult to gesture nonchalantly or feign calm, to reach quiescence. The unparalleled supposition that all is not clearly defined, as i'd previously thought, has startled me. I've never been faced with such an aphorismic calling to debase all that i've created.

To put it more plainly, i'm up against the world that i've deigned solid and worth a damn. It seems that this frankenstein invention has somehow turned against me, and all that i've worked so hard to create, in hand, has transposed yet more effort and diligence. Is this perhaps the infinite recreation of pi that proves millenia of more of the same? You can't argue with mathematics man! Is there any end or retribution to these now aimless travails?

I am constantly searching for what psychologist's deem one's "place." A special place such as Peter Pan had to descry, otherwise he couldn't remember how to fly. This culpable neglect has managed to clip my wings and leave me utterly torn upon which route to take. In the manner of the common discontened husband, i've found a splendid peace in my work routine. My occupations have become harbors of asylum, where no one can touch me. The first, with customers that couldn't vilify themselves due to a lack of intelligence; and the second, kids, who no matter what, cannot profess criticisms to be taken personally. Only a knitwit could be burned by such shoal adversaries.

Otherwise in search of a place, like Steinbeck's Ethan Hawley in a nook upon New Baytown's waterfront, i find a number of possibilities. An existentialist would locate the "place" within the self and nowhere else. I could only relate on a certain level. Certainly, no matter where you are, there you are. But, what about the substantive power to the human psyche of holding a physical, actual place? A place located through much haphazard and random searching. Or a site that has brought one to tears or been habitated during a great event. This concept holds more weight for me. I think of the quotidian returns to places i've found, to eat my lunch or scribble in a notebook. I cannot accept that revisitation is merely a reflex to the boring nature of human beings. There must be some proven root in the body's benefit to that site; it could not be otherwise, for our bodies are much smarter than our brains. Hell, the Egyptians would scoop out the brain in ritual burials of the elite. They figured it had no worth in the afterlife, hence not a significant bounty in this world.

I haven't had ample time to collect myself between bouts of domestic hammering. Is this what it means to be married? The way sour lovers refer to the notion of commitment? Does it truly have to be such a battle? And why can't a man (or woman) find peace when they most need it? Perhaps, true to my constant contestment, the universe works in such ways because only a full journey to one end of the sprectrum can bring spectoral development. Only extremes can rivet one to make a decision, to change, to evolve. If this is true, i can accept such matters with humble assiduity. But, if an inkling of doubt remains, all i can say is "fuck G-O-D, pick on somebody else."