There is currently no better word for incomplete than incomplete,
and therein lies the paradoxical fuckery of coping with emptiness
and grappling with nothing. By conceptualizing nothing, it's been
disserviced. The fact remains, 'nothing' is easier said than done.
It extends beyond the removal of materialism, of desire and remorse,
though each contributes to the whole in their own small ways.
Feeling incomplete is inherently difficult by pitting one's soul solely
in the void. Without knowing, without planning, without thinking.
The greatest torture and thereby the greatest therapy must then be
solitude, if only a modicum of sanity can be maintained throughout.
When you strip away the gained insight, the experience of it all,
preconceived notions of existence, all that remains is self.
The illusory fabric of 'reality'; a flimsy construct built on distraction
whereby goals drive innovation instead of the opposite.
And balancing the scales too moderately stagnates the procedural
growth that ever rebels against our urge for 'free-will'.
The only real choice to be made is whether to partake or quit.
It is indeed difficult to relinquish control in the unfathomable depths
of our sincerely unknown universe, but I've said it before and so again
I shall: "Be leery of any who claim to have the answers."
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