i don't know.

it's amazing how little we know of the world, of each other, of ourselves. if i wanted to go deep into it, i could prove that you (we) know none of the things we think we do, really. but, ignoring that, why is this ignorance inherent? why must we constantly stutter, think back, and wonder if what we thought or said was ever accurate?

it makes my whole body shiver with curiosity.
how is it possible to live without any sense of definity(i invented that word, i hate definiteness.)?

how often during the day must i answer "i don't know" when asked how i feel? basic human emotions are easy, beyond easy, to name, but i suppose the vast vichyssoise (ha, a vendetta remark for those who care) of emotions is hard to? why must our minds be reduced to broth? why must i answer "i don't know" when asked if i love him? i suppose the aforementioned soup du jour cannot name anything let alone love.

i feel these things, do i not; these longings, these desires, these weeping homunculi; and yet my words express none. they lay victim to the duality of man; to the bombardment of my hatreds, my reluctancies, my winged homunculi. there is a war in heaven inside of me and my words are of the third who do not pick sides.

therefore they, too, go to hell.

ah, the comedy of the tragedy we're in. when will anything mean anything?

i hate to say it, but i don't know.