I Have No Way of Knowing.

The unprecedented magnitude of the degree to which I am currently uninspired is, I must say, so overwhelming that it almost inspires me. Of course, for that to actually happen would be impossible. A travesty. Nonetheless, I wonder if such a paradoxical sham could be redeemed - by me, that is, excluding the certainty that it will inevitably be redeemed by Christ - with the gradual clarification of ideas into something truly inane.

No, certainly not.

Today I realized that my heart is unlikely ever to be broken by a dead man. Of course, there are downsides and sacrifices one has to make. At least I would imagine so, though I have no way of knowing.

And really, I have no way of knowing almost anything. It serves me well to be asked regular questions to which the answer is, "I have no way of knowing." It aids in the preservation of what humility I've managed to scrape together (though more likely it is another travesty and also not I but another who has graciously scraped it together for me; however, I have no way of knowing) and hopefully leads to truth that can actually be known.

As for the dead men, I believe the joys afforded me by my dear Johann Sebastian are so great and so untarnished that it would not be fitting even if I had the means to find his vital company, for men are capricious until they are dead. What they leave behind is more or less imperishable and any disappointment therein can almost always be avoided due to its monolithic predictability. And so all I have to do is choose which dead man will disappoint me the least and see how miserable I can make myself.

The problem with this, of course, is that I shall be miserable, which was very near the opposite of my original goal. But naturally this is not certain, as it, being a thing, is a mystery to me and I, as usual, have no way of knowing.

But misery is my companion regardless, and my misery, if such a thing were possible, does not let me down. If I could find a way to fall in love with misery, I'm sure I would do it, except that I have a suspicion that for one thing it would be impossible (a travesty!), and furthermore that I would not cease to be miserable although I might enjoy it, or perhaps that misery would find a way to shed its steadiness and let me down.

Also, I find it unfair that when my face is downcast with sadness, the fallen acorns jeer at me from the ground. It will be good when they have all been run over, or trodden underfoot, or eaten by squirrels or carried away by greedy birds and children. Then, they will fall again and it is anyone's guess as to whether they will taunt me a second time.