used to be easy. It comes, after all—or, at least, I used to imagine that I purchased it—packaged as a consumer product, from the world of bottles and boxes, easy, convenient, cheap.
The trouble with the transcendental, however, is that one builds a tolerance to it, particularly when it’s cheap and plentiful. Eventually, one is forced to return to the mundane.
One is forced to stand face-to-face with the mundane.
The moment at which the mundane achieves complete dominion, at which contact with the transcendental is lost entirely, is the moment at which the transcendental returns with a vengeance, perhaps inverted in valence, perhaps not.
The moment of final, fully determined failure is the greatest and most terrible moment of freedom; the moment of final, fully determined freedom is the greatest and most terrible moment of failure.
Every finality is a transcendental bomb, a metaphysical irony trap in which struggle intensifies the damage exponentially over time, but surrender allows the damage to arrive all at once.
The transcendentally mundane, it seems to me, can be experienced only through the indeterminate and mediocre.
I don’t know what I’m saying.
I feel surreal and worried and a bit alone, and it’s getting colder outside because Fall is coming.