A question of existentialism

I think, to first begin at the start, I had no real idea, you seemed, unbound, protean, primordial in your chaos and your nature that never quite met at the full circle. I don't think I had a good image then, even now, I think, I still don't, not really. You have this, spark, of something, unique in that it defies reason, rhyme, and function. a fifth corner on a square, if you will. A, I do no see you as anything physical of the world, in such a sense, as no denying your existence, but you have struck me more as something apart, yet grounded by the realities laws, only because you have not managed to free oneself from these. I would not use the term spirit, for so often, these are given to a connotation that in such, mean of living beyond a mortality now shed, and at times, you remind, of an echo of something not so. I know at this time, I by far, view not to mince words, and speak with a directness, of being poetical, more towards a philosophic bent in such that you do not remind me of one that humanity came first, but of a place, a time, that such notions such not exist in that place, but as perceptions, rules and laws of the world in such bent, twisted and formed, one had no choice but to live underneath this steel sky.

I still have not really answered the question either, not by the measure of such, because, there is in mulling, and pondering, no clear answer that I yet arrive at. It is puzzling, boggling, and all to much a distasteful irk of unpleasantness, because in mulling down this lane, in a pondering morning, before even the light of the sun rises. That such thoughts turn to older times, and being not of a nature to as much believe that they good, in a view that spiritual natures could be a part, that I find myself questioning the nature of eldritch forms, places, and powers, and of such, that the possibility that they may in truth exist, and be of a place that ran once over such the earth as it was, protean, a line of what could be, yet, as the tide of machines rose, the ages of the magic dimmed, where science overtook the means of the divine, and the arcane. I, do not know what you are, in how I see you, but only can give, that you are something different, a part of something older, a time and place, that in choice, defies what my words can bring.

I can look to my past, and for my own views, they are surprisingly narrow, a world of black of white, predator, and prey, and all to many wolves that were circling, even now. There are so little shades, despite having learned myself, what it means to be human. And, for my own views, coming to truth in the means of theology, and the art, and fact of seeking what it means. That I find, I will never know. And the question, that I never will, not in the form I have. There, is, in this moment, of mulling, thinking deeper still, of the past, shrouded, that I wonder, just how many that humanity claims for its own, are in truth, that. So many things, that could, that might, and that what one could explain as simple as a flip of a coin, are wrong, and will never be on the nature of without that mystery, there is nothing to look up, look forward to, but only behind, and the ghosts of the past to swallow and leap up, never a moment of pan's revelry, but only the horrors of the nights past, and a vision forward where only one force merely waits.

I can glimpse there-in, as both problem, and solution, that in my views of you, in part, what this life has instilled is what it is to be mortal, to be bound, and held by a world that seeks only itself. And is such right, or fair, it cannot grasp, it cannot see, for it is as such beyond that notice, as we might in the means of the blood within us, and creatures beyond the sights scale that we seek. Is it inhuman no, but merely, different, in such dimensions that should we speak to it, upon if it held such means, that fundamentally, we could only learn its sentience, or not, as we might ask to co-exist, or mend what has been done. I think, in the many aspects, we, of things, are changing, not evolving, but of by the means of our internal ideology, shaping that which has fallen apart to a time that was.

How can you explain what you do not know, but merely say, that of as one that watches the world go by, that the answers are wrong, but right, because of what perception is bound by? I know, that there is something else beyond here, and yet there is nothing to pierce the veil. The cage is set, barred, and locked, and no single force, can break it, it takes the act of entropy, a force that shapes generations, even thought itself to mold and shape its holders. And entropy is not wieldable, not really, but the act of change is of itself, something that invites it, for the old is shaped, and something is lost. The world of, I'm not sure it is the world, but the fact of what we are, it is wrong, on so many levels. I find myself at a loss, to express, but I can know, somewhere, that it gone, a state, of being, of existence, and that is without words, something unique, and forever out of reach, yet why, I find myself wearing a frown, and a tear. That I know, deep down, past all the shields, the wards, and the measures meant to hide, what it is. I do not mind the tears, the pain, for it is an old thing, a part of what has given me a place and a part, and at this, a smile, brief, and a snort, amused. That I would be of such a place to have this.

I know sleep is calling, it echoes in my bones, my face, and my mind. A calling to reset all this for a time, and that I might find some measure of what is, and what could be, among the dreams, that one view, I can think back to having pierced so long ago, a dream of memory, and that holds me true, to walk again, back to a story, never quite finished, the day itself marring the ending, of the crone, the youth, and the corruption, and of the single child, that bespoke of something so worse. The fragments, an echo in memory's single panes, shining to the back of my eyes in the dark, here and gone as they twirl, fading to slivers as they do. Its strange, and it is, that I find, that this is done, and for all that I have said, it is a better thing that I have.