The present really is the most painful thing to me. There must be an element of the human spirit that knows how to read present occurrences better than anything else. Perhaps there's even an element that reads past occurrences better than anything else? Future occurrences? They read books, we read books, they exist in bodies, we exist in libraries.
There's a mammoth temptation inside. Inside this temptation is an ardor for basking in memories. Memories have become my joy.
And yet, I don't spend as much time as I'd like basking in memories. I have a fear toward this desire of mine. Solomon said not to beg for the days gone by.
And here I am examining myself again, I think. But can I truly examine myself. If I and myself are the same thing, how is this examination possible? Can any one thing examine itself? Analyzing words can be very dull, which I just demonstrated.
Isn't it pathetic when ephemeral things become our joy? Joy should be divine. Joy should be God made. Joy should be eternal.
For awhile now, I've been thinking about how selfish my writings are. Tonight I finally feel some regret as I sit here writing about myself. Looking inward can be so mesmerizing at times - the ecstasy of self-consciousness!
But is it good? Ethics and morality should never be subordinate to desire and pleasure. Oh look, it's my inner zealot who will likely disappear in a matter of 10 minutes.
Self-examination has its share of sorrow too, however. But is that so wrong? Perhaps I feel sorrow when I look at myself because I recognize my own spiritual waywardness? And with this learning, I could find resolves. That sounds plausible.
I have somehow managed to will this dark night of the soul. I do not stumble under a sky of new clouds; I comfortably will the existence of these clouds - a vain passion over Godly reason. Why am I doing this to myself?
If only I had eyes to see the God that my heart so desperately wants to love.