I am such a fool. My beliefs are not meant to be molded and expressed by the frail, flawed language of mortals. True expression is not to be released, nor to be published, nor to be formed in any place other than in one’s own mind. Definition cannot be found in any place other than the hallowed depths of my being; purpose can only be discovered when a thorough search is conducted away from this world, and away from our silly, petty fears that are so important to us and can dominate so much of our lives. I hate being sincere. It is so futile while upon this world. To truly be frank with myself out loud is ridiculous.

I’ve decided I don’t ever want to publish. I’ve questioned the motives behind my doing so and I’ve discovered that they are completely aesthetic. Not for the fame or money or anything silly like that; I’m too lazy and worried to care about anything as completely stupid as that. I would publish to finally be able to hold, in my physical hand, the security of knowing and being able to articulate my beliefs. I have realized, however, that my beliefs should not be articulated. What folly that would be! Upon that day I would hold in my hand not what I believe, but the theory held by mankind for centuries that would bear strongest resemblance to my beliefs. This theory, or belief, or manmade conclusion, whatever it may be, is so dissimilar to what I truly live for. Why would I discuss this? What does this have to do with anyone but myself?

I will not find happiness in an audacious parade of events and details that have been circumspectly arranged by an ignorant hand that demands to know the things that are not meant to be known. It’s quite simple: all I have to do is live what I know. I have nothing else to do, so why would I do anything else? I need to stop dancing around this and attempting to find a middle ground in which I can have pleasure and serenity. One could say that these two things are synonyms, but no, my dearest, they are opposites indeed.