there's this deep resignation that nothing truly matters and yet a furious, almost desperate urge to make something matter, to carve out a fleeting, fragile significance where none inherently exists, and it’s not a conflict exactly, more like two immense, indifferent currents flowing in the same channel, one pulling towards the vast, dark ocean of the forgotten and the other straining against it, building tiny, intricate boats out of sheer will, it feels like the way the museum air settles around the ancient artifacts at , a heavy, dust-laden permanence that will swallow all our names and yet i still walk these halls with my notebooks, now on the fifteenth, still blank save for the memory of that faint tremor in my fingers just before the first page, just before i let the question unravel itself, because the questions, they seem to outlast the answers anyway, like these bronze age tools outlast the hands that wielded them, and the burden of that choice, to simply choose meaning in the face of indifference, it presses against my spine as i lean against a glass case, the cool surface a strange anchor, and it’s a strangely potent brew, this acceptance and this insistence, like a particularly strong cup of black tea that burns and comforts all at once, an echo of the loop unbroken, just carrying on, because what else is there to do but choose to carry on, to build cathedrals out of raw nothingness, as i thought before, and that thought, it always comes back to the weight, the sheer, crushing weight of that choice, and the strange, inexplicable lightness that follows it.