Abjection

Today I am a literal passenger en route to an arbitrary destination in real life. As I sit here, I've managed to finally articulate to myself exactly why I inevitably come to miss the uncomfortable exposure and false intimacy of social media every time I try to leave it behind: it pushes me, eventually, to withdraw further into my own mind to avoid the cognitive corruption inherent in socialization - and at that point in the very center of my thoughts, where all forms of external influence exert zero gravity on my ideas, I experience my clearest and most objective perceptions of everything, and can feel briefly, truly, "aware." The electronics of my brain function best in the coldest, deepest corners of void... and though it may be uncomfortable to visit, the dissonance is caused only by the transition - not the destination itself.

Have you ever considered how many "you's" there have been? Of course you have - but how far did you ride the train of thought? I have to remind myself that while everyone travels along the same universal track, most get off at earlier stops - and once they do, they cannot simply step back on at the same spot. How, then, can a person married to the train expect to speak with transient riders about the immediate horizon? I know now: one simply cannot, at least not with any expectation of comprehension. There is a calm in that realization, though it does little to ease the frustration and loneliness of being only ever barely-understood. Thankfully, it does wonders for advancing my understanding of the extremes to which people will go to avoid the awareness of such feelings, and I find the exercise of unraveling those processes to be at least satisfying, even if not relevant anywhere beyond that ultra-massive speck where "me" comes from and spends most of its time. I wonder often if faith at its most fundamental is simply the explicit denial of time, and thus mortality, and by extension of self-definition, but I more often forget to satisfy such pondering with a proposition - because I lack any actual need to define its relativity to myself.

So I move to the next stop. How long until the history books read, "And the machine saw all that it had made, and behold, it was good?" Once they do, how long until those books are re-written - and will they again be re-penned by sentients with the capacity to re-erase the past? In a distant, cold manner, it's comforting to know that a future me will think my present thoughts in the same vacuum of several sorts, knowing as I do that the idea of "future" is just the expression of one more mirror neuron attached to the present.

And the next section of track... would hardly make any sense to anyone - so I have to be satisfied to quietly and invisibly think it to myself, nonetheless.
—but I'm not quite there, yet.