Choosing Confessions

What more is there to write?

It has been said before, a thousand ways, and time is the only difference if it is to be said again. The same thing will have existed at a later time, and yet we are left with the original problem.

The cheep thrill of a new solution is fleeting, and then demands ten, twenty, a hundred more, and we are not left with resolution, but with work, distraction, grief, apathy.

Must unwrite, unthink, unexist. Must mute, dampen, regress back to something less than what we pretend can be defined. There are some awful truths that are simply too real to be blotted out with nice, clean, subtle ones.

Perhaps there are vibrant, divine errors that are superior to the reclusive, evil ones. Perhaps the pursuit of the least pathetic errors is the best we can accomplish. Perhaps life is war, and the lesser of two evils is really always the question. Maybe it is the least of a thousand evils, or a million, in an infinite future shaped by our perpetual failure–our lack of will and inaction, but probably mostly inaction.

There seem to be two options:

1. To do no harm and consider ourselves fortunate that we are still breathing.
   
2. To do harm with tenacity and enthusiasm and consider ourselves fortunate that there is more harm to be done.

Maybe choosing confessions is really all we are doing here anyway. Maybe that is enough thinking for the day.