A wonderful story is history, a wonderful, wild story full of fantasy, and grand lies, and some truth in there filling up the space between, like sand in a large jar of rocks. And the talking heads and politicos, and academics, and the host of parasites uncountable observe the rocks and act according to what they think they know. Or they make their own fantastical, absurd, duplicitous rocks and throw out the old rocks. they never seem to notice that the sand they put back in the jar with the new rocks is the stuff of daily reality.
Too much weight… personal, peoples, cultures, past errors judged, mischance and carelessness, and the reward of effort is only regret. Refuge of fools, there doesn’t seem to be much in life worth the effort to achieve it and the rewards are ephemeral at best. Too much weight … the reason for failure, the reason for success, it’s not my fault, I’m all right jack… Even the excesses and indulgences pale eventually … and the dying are all the same … pulling into themselves, shrinking, leaking, recoiling, and the last vision, a last 10,000 mile stare is something utterly banal…
Is solipsism a viable point of view? Can one really be so firmly sealed in the prison of self that the (pick your concern of choice) is the primary datum of one’s existence?
Post Scriptum “that which comes after the writing”