My Toast to Nietzsche. *clink* then *shatter*

*WARNING* the following hurts my head.  I can't imagine what it'll do to yours.  Wear a helmet, son!!

I think that like first there was the sun.

A glowing disc that moves in the largest arc.  Over and over it slashes across the sky.  
We are founded on cycles.  Our cells in our bodies cycle in and out every seven years or so.  It is only fitting that we sentient beings mar this ancient annulation .  We can't just let the circle meet back to its origin without taking a detour into the abstract, to the digressive, the self-effacing, unrealizable and impossible.  We can shrink the circle, and let it spiral into oblivion.  We can alter the orientation and vector of the circle into convolution, like the mobius strip.  We can even come close to connecting the first stroke with the last, but instead let the end be devoured by its beginning like Ouroboros.  But to have a fully complete cycle?

Here's the catch about hopping on the wagon:  things start to become overwhelmingly clear and precise.  Any opaqueness and notional logic is eschewed by the unhindered focus and attention your brain is now allowed to exercise.   For someone like me, it's barbaric torture.   I thrive on getting lost in my head, searching for the pith of ... the pith of whatever it is that I believe to be bothering me.  Now, acerbity is changed into passivity, paranoia into trust, and worst of all, my mind's mic got unplugged.  Sobriety is silence:  active, like a flat white noise devoid of the frequencies that make it dynamic:  something that equally pleases all pleasure receptors:  a wavelength that is no sound at all that somehow drowns out everything else.  Imagine being hugged not by a person who's arms have strength and heat and calluses, who you can smell, who's hair falls into your eyes, who's too tall and bends down awkwardly, or two short and reaches arms around your neck the way a child would giving you the least bit of comfort, or someone too fat who you feel more belly than arm,  or too skinny so you feel like you're going to break them, no no, imagine being hugged by a luke-warm bed sheet that swaddles around your torso, cocooning you in to an absolutely average vice grip, easy to break free, but still noticeable .  That's what this feels like.
Even writing this right now is becoming a task.  I haven't had this much trouble writing in ages:  things are pragmatic.  The very title of this blog seems to me now preposterous.  What else could there be than what is actualized?   How can the objects and actions exist on any plane besides the absolute atomic and scientific verum on which they were created?  Organic and scientific equations equalling a sum.  Or no sum.  Nil.   That german philosopher fellow.  Who would think that sobriety would bring about nihilism.  I thought that the vice of substance abuse was the wondering inside of your head that lead to insecurity, involuted abstractions and aberrations of reality, but perhaps it was the crutch that can keep your brain searching.   Now, here I am, clear as a bell in spring-time, and things are obvious, and pervasive, and without something greater, without footnotes or an asterisk, without an ominous question mark or ellipses.  My ontological rhetoric is stinted, and without a complete circuit, my light bulb sits, dormant, just a filament that rattles when breathed on.

And here stands my altercation with cycles.   I can't connect the alpha and omega in a cordial fashion.  I am somehow either jettisoned out into the ether, there to ponder where it started and where it will go;  or found at the beginning again, only to realize i'm staring at the jaws of what started this sequence.


Maybe I'm not there yet.