another foray in the search to create a meaning

Life is futile scrambling, as witness my position today: writing this post without a thesis sentence or discernable topic, watching bad television from the 80's (which may be redundant), at some ungodly hour of the morning, sitting on a foul-smelling Fluxus-contraption impersonating a chair, trying to detail a stream of consciousness without devoting much consciousness to the streaming. Such futility! In my two years of living, I have observed that each successive day is far more terrible than the preceding one; one wonders why any self-respecting toddler would attempt the enormous energies required to teach oneself to type, since an oppressive air of "Why Bother?" seems to rule the atmosphere like a kind of self-promoting pollution. Why bother? Why pick up a crayon, since despite the initial riot and variety of colour crayons inevitably render up a sad democracy, the melancholy of chosisme.... oh, the emperor Marcus Aurelius assuredly said it most pithily, in his Meditations. I'd quote it here, except that I'm not sure if I've completely mastered this whole "reading" thing.
More anon, perhaps tomorrow.

jr