In this way, people seeming especially prone to the inclination that where they are, what they are doing, and what they think is the right way, or at least more inclined with the right way than where they used to be, what they did, what they thought, this naturally stemming from, at least in part, from the direct physical sensation of progress, or at least the interpretation of physical sensations as being progressive (e.g., the sensation that the present is a progression from the past and is consequently more aligned with reality, being that the past has seemed, from the very physical sensation of sensing time passing, to have faded into some indeterminate, ineffable ether, some oblivion, and leaving only the sensation of the present time occupied, which itself is felt to be slipping away, losing its concrete, soluble quality, and fading into some abstract, perpetually accretive concept of TIME PASSED, with a sort of plummeting quality, as though one were falling through the linear progression of time via preordained pathway, as in an amusement park free-fall ride, elongated to fit the contours of an individual lifespan), in this way it is easy to deceive yourself into thinking I USED TO HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I WAS DOING, BUT I’VE LEARNED FROM THAT, AND I HAVE A BETTER UNDERSTANDING NOW. And one of course may ascertain that this very sensation can and almost definitely will be applied to themselves again, later on in retrospect. In accordance with the sensation of progress. That life is moving from here, A, to there, B, and the further one moves away from A, the closer they will feel to B. And B being the end result of course. Being the direction toward one is moving. And so life carries a particular sensation of getting THERE. Always being on the verge of SOMETHING, even if that SOMETHING turns out to be just the next step on the causeway of getting to the ultimate SOMETHING. The last, transcendental SOMETHING. The end result. I could spend my whole life talking about it. GETTING TO THE POINT, as it were. And there is the sensation the whole time I’m talking that the next thing I say could be it, could be the last thing I have to say. And in this way the plummeting sensation of falling through an immense column of time is present in any conceivable experience. And always there is the premonition you’re about to land. This is what I mean by GETTING THERE. The constant sensation you’re about to hit ground. And in this way...

Ever feel like there’s an element (or maybe elements, I don’t know – which is basically my entire point summed up right here) of adult-life which is in some way, for whatever reason, downplayed or overlooked? Something unequivocally there, but which no one ever talks about or otherwise seems to acknowledge. Like you’re (personally, you are – as though you were the subject of a conspiracy which, it seemed to you, the entire adult world is in on and has planned, fleshed out, and implemented against you, yourself, personally) somehow being denied something. Something vital. Something necessary to know (necessary in the sense that it would provide some manner of alleviation from certain troubles, something to just help you deal in some possible way with certain things – like a catchall answer or conclusion, applicable to anything [though you admit this possibility (of a catchall anything) seems silly and naïve and also utterly, inexorably impossible, but still – somehow – the seeming impossibility of this catchall something-or-other existing appears to be a component of the conspiracy (i.e., the subsequent result of countless, unrelenting appraisals from conspirators privy to the conspiracy that such a vital, necessary piece of information existing is utterly, inexorably impossible in attempts to somehow preserve their conspiracy and keep you, the subject, firmly entrenched in your position as subject to the conspiracy)]). Like you were raised your entire life with this something in the back of every adults’ mind, kept there (in the back of the mind, the indeterminate something) with the intention of an imminent reveal someday, when you’re older. And someday, when you were older, you walked around with this vague, chronic sense of wrongness which couldn’t quite be explained (to yourself, foremost, and especially to anyone else), couldn’t even really be described (not really in the sense that you couldn’t come close to even possibly being able to describe it, or allude to it, or suggest it in any way despite how often or how painstakingly desperate you were in your attempts to do so), and which all arouse from a sensation that something was missing – a vital and necessary bit of information that could provide some context or clue or explanation or could help in any way at all really. And that information was being kept from you (probably not deliberately, as you sometimes assumed – as in the sense of an unnecessarily prolonged someday-when-you’re-older routine – but more like everyone had simply forgotten the information in the interim, or they automatically assumed someone had already clued you in, all your apparent troubles feigned in the conditions of you coalescing with the conspiracy and maintaining the façade for those who have yet to meet the criteria necessary to be met to be clued in to and invited to join this thing everyone assumed you had already been clued into and invited to join and accepted). And if you ever tried to ask anyone for this absolutely vital, necessary bit of information (information which you seemed almost bullheadedly sure was there, somewhere, just lying in wait for you to find it), everyone answered in ways which were so obviously not an answer – so laughably, unequivocally inept at providing anything really vital and necessary at all – that they were so obviously a cover for the real bit of vital, necessary information that was still being kept from you until that someday, when you’re older (in total compliance with the enigmatic terms of the conspiracy – which seemed to you so real and obviously there, and the terms, too, also seeming to you clearly there, albeit elusive and difficult to nail down and seeming to be just as well kept and maintained a secret from you as that totally vital and necessary bit of information they had been erected to defend against you, causing you so much trouble, so many petty little difficulties and frustrations which, you were somehow sure, could have been completely avoided, or efficiently dealt with if only you had this bit of vital, necessary information which, for some reason, no one wanted you to know), even though you felt older – if still young and a bit stupid (in that you were having such an obviously hard time with so many things). And that information would be very nice right about now.