The irresistible urge to reflect – to systemically wail, to voice out the uneasily unutterable, to extemporize one’s unbearable existential trite – basically emanates from one’s frustration. One’s frustration apropos of the burden of an imposed living, an inexplicably ubiquitous phenomenon of being tasked with a mission – to satisfy one’s protectors under whose tutelage one is constantly marionetted. One ominously feels the coming of a certain serendipitous calamity to befall him, should he fail to get the pain of the menace inhabiting his conscience off his chest. Hence, the need to displace this geist pronto before it turns into an implosive conflagration.
In a world not of our making or of choosing for that matter we’re consumed by the ever present fear of aphasia, a debilitating infirmity that hampers one’s capacity to reveal as it were one’s phenomenal existence to the world out there and repressive amnesia, the failure to remember one’s apotheosis in the form of anamnesis, an unconsciously driven compendium of piecemeal personal fragments in the form of parables, poems, songs or else apologetic confessions on the deathbed.
If one’s doesn’t engage in the obsessive fabrication and confabulation of one’s nostalgia-dominated subjective perspectives regarding most things in life that might or not matter once in a while, one is inadvertently forced to succumb to the fear of being forgotten by one’s significant or rather insignificant others, those entities that inhabit the wide world outside one’s domain of control, sometimes those of the cimmerii, all those phenomena that dwell in the darkest corners of undiscoverablity at least for the time being or till their hideousness gives way for an unexpected revelation to the light of the observant and imaginative mind of an eccentric persona.