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In which the author realises he has been duped by dreams of unreachable success, and finds his true self in the rhythms of the body.

Today in a moment of clarity I had a breakthrough and realised that contrary to the pig-headed opinion of myself and the illusory and contrived and misinformed praise of others the look of consternation that sits brooding over my face at all hours of the day and night like the incessant surface of the ocean above a torpid landscape aeons deep in sleep is less an indication that a troubled inquiring mind is agitating somewhere far beneath the face in some hermetically-sealed sensorium and is more the unregulated virgin result of the mind of a simpleton coming face to face moment after indefatiguable moment with scenes of such complexity and antipodal novelty and inspiration that the inquiring mind is forced to forfeit its intrepid endeavours and submit itself like a devotee before an intercessional idol to what can only ever amount to the crude reimaginings of resolved cosmic mysteries by the coarse hands of the methodologically illiterate. I have more in common with Violent J than I have ever cared to admit. But I admit it now. I’m disdainful of hard work and the rationalist’s literalism and prefer to swim in the placid bodily pools of my own emotions which if they ever broach upon even the outermost edges of the vast beaches of knowledge that are the sciences’ domain do so as the wave-weak swells of the low tide lap carelessly upon the beach: carefully, softly, reverentially and with temperance. That’s me, some lukewarm invisible outlier content to ponder the sunlit spaces upon which others ably walk. Now not even to what they study but to the people themselves I am inclined to utter, “fucking miracles”!

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