Sometimes I feel like our extensions, our art, our literature, our media are better than the real thing. But what is the real thing? The source of all these extensions I suppose. And then I realize that I am wrong. They cannot be better or more complete than the sources they stream from, because they are only a part, a representation of that source.
Sometimes I can watch something happening and feel that dull ache of an emptiness I cannot quite explain, and realize just for a second that maybe I have not truly experienced what is real, or what can be.
And maybe I am constructed solely of all these representations. My being maybe. But no, this is too bleak, too plastic, too meaningless to fully comprehend. I have experienced at least a taste of what is real...if nothing else.
But I must say, when the black tide does rise, it is comforting, if not completely satisfying to retreat to the extensions, which are suspended high above the surging waters. Maybe even a survival mechanism.
What's all this abstract talk anyway? Does this vehicle work? Does it confuse? Does it alienate?
Pahhh.
