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In the end it comes down to who you are and why you're sitting here writing instead of doing the work set out for you by the dictates of God and Man combined, who both seek in tandem to prepare you sufficiently for that long-anticipated, long-awaited, and long-feared "real world" of life, the universe, and everything, but that's far too nebulous and generalized a statement to try to answer as it is, so you narrow it down; you figure out what "who you are" really means, decide exactly what your plans are for the future--whether you should change your mind and pursue that at which you excel and love or instead tread the dead and muddy road of a career prophesied only by yourself, a dream created by the imaginative psyche of a twelve-year-old, wonder-eyed child who sought only to make the world a better place through a challenge to all the human race to determine whether they can comprehend and integrate a concept so foreign, so beyond the normal realms of what they might construe as reality, that it threatens the very fabric of society, government, and religion (who knows the origin of a soul?)--and then you realize how incredibly weak you have been to even consider throwing away a vision so magnificent, even in the barren and lonely travails to traverse which have been set out for you, laid down like an obfuscated, star-strewn pathway by the magistrates of education and business, but unfortunately, even after this vast period of introspection and quest for clarity, you stumble upon the idea that in pursuit of this glorious ideal, the sacrifices are placed before you like a smorgasbord from which you can choose what to kill--what your mind can afford to lose, among the steaming plates of fantasy, sleep, and socialization--and you take one step back, to try to clarify, detoxify, and delineate the direction you're about to take so that ten years from now, whether you're consigned to a cardboard box, a research laboratory, or a psychiatric ward, you'll be able to say to yourself, "This is what I wanted; this was my choice; this is what I sought ten years ago" before you cry yourself to sleep, indulging in the memories of what might have been if you had taken the secret path, hidden by bushes and obscured by the plethora of other roads that takes a sharp diagonal across all the rest and lends itself to the culmination of the whole of all of your far-stretching goals of pruning the human mind through whatever means necessary without realizing that it would have been so easy if you hadn't used so much of your time composing a four hundred-sixty-word sentence in pitiable indulgence in self-pitying phrase.




Whoo... broke my own record!