seriously what the shit did I just write... ;=;

The Existential Paradigm of What It Means To Be A Color 


Then again, I don’t know how I ended up here. The same events tying me down day after day but then again, who am I really? Am I a color or am I just the palette? What applies, and what doesn’t? Perhaps I’m just writing subconsciously here, but then again, the subconscious shines through anything and everything.


It’s funny when you want to write about yourself but write about everything else other than you at the same time. It creates an interesting layer, I suppose.

When it gets down to it, my own two feet rest on a carpeted surface as I type about my two feet resting on a carpeted surface.

Do they know they’re being watched?

Are we watched?

Perhaps not by a sentient/divine being, or not even by surveillance cameras, a la conspiracy theorist’s wet dreams.

Are we watching ourselves, is the question!

I watch myself all the time.

Not out of vanity, or out of self-deprecating image-influenced precociousness.

I watch myself out of caution.

I think the Human Condition isn’t worth anything if you don’t acknowledge that you’re scared of yourself.

I’m scared of myself.

I’m scared of what my actions will cause.

I’m scared of what my actions won’t.

I’m scared because I’m scared, and that makes me insecure.

I’m scared because I’m insecure, and so forth.

The paradoxes and the iterations of fear never end.

I’m making myself out to be some overly pretentious philosopher, but everyone thinks of it, I’m quite positive.

Permutations of one’s self never cease to exist until we are happy.

I am happy, though, despite my fears.

I have a girlfriend who’s been contributing to my life in ways that nobody else but me could possibly fathom, but I take it upon my interest and my duties to her heart to remind her every day just how much I love her, and how much she does for me.

She makes my light shine brighter.

Despite my fear.

Now what would you say to that?

We’ve established that I’m an insecure person with an amazing girlfriend that keeps the machine up and running and happily oiled.

What is there left to say?

The Existentialist thing to do would be to say, “What ISN’T there left to say?”

But I’m a color, not just a palette.

I’m going to go ahead and ask, “Why wouldn’t there be anything left to say?” and challenge the existentialist within me.

I’m sure it can get back to me after it’s done analyzing why I’m up at 4:12 in the morning typing out bullshit that probably doesn’t make sense.

I don’t know.

I’m merely a color.

You probably expected a grand idealist to provoke great thought.


I’m merely a color.