The Purpose of Problems

Problems allow people to form opinions related to their own perspective and spend time numerous in the land of Mind. The land of Mind has had a lot of attention and continues to hold our favor on an ever increasing global scale. Spreading problems in turn, spreads ideas. If something worked, if there were no ideological crises, there would be no comparison, criticism, solution, debate, decision, judgment, argument or anything that we take as meaningful, the way we understand our existence as part of such a world of this kind. The P is set to problem. Set the P to peacefulness. Hummmmmmmm.

Adrian Searle - No conflict, No interest. 

Full and Fatal Pursuits

Elias is a helpless dreamer. Cursed with the passions of a genius and the capacities of a simpleton. He has pursued all his interests not achieving at any one. Coming out unchanged, as if no memory or gift of caution is left him and still he drinks from the eternally poisoned well. A member of the damned. Dreams could be considered ambitions to the busy body, the confident and the chaser of elaborate goals. But they are more to Sebastian. He drinks and suffers and fades away from the most modest of sips....then again is awakened with a new, but painful thirst, over and over. He is forever trapped in a dream; dreaming and waking in anxiousness...cold chills. Never knowing a satisfied rest. Never all in life or all in death...neither in peace or in terrible nightmares completely. Trapped in between, where there is nothing, nothing but a finite infinity. Focused confusion. A realm of incongruence, contradictions. No forwards except to go backwards. 

Room With Nowhere to View

A human may have all the room to his pleasure, but never anywhere to set a course to, or from, or any reason to do so, or not to. Completely free within boundaries. Space enough to utilize with nothing to activate a change.

Not This Reality Dancing On My Head

The reality is that there is none. Sebastian will look for order and direction from the speculation in other's supposed realities. He thinks perhaps there is something to consider, something to link into a reality. But these are constructions and will crumble. But these must suffice for some time and poor soul, he may even find solace- dare we say it, confirmation, of his own shadowed understanding within them... these are easily drained of meaning. Illogical pursuits soon fade. Beginning with creations from minds that travel speedily beyond his, he follows them, he is thirsty; the old metaphor remains. And so, they are not of his own doing for most unfortunates this is the solid truth. The well is not there for a sweet drink, nor the distant shaded pool an attainable refuge. Merely to cling to anything that passes, behaving parasitically, he is not one who is unaware of this nature, or switched off to it; he knows it like a curse. Perhaps this makes for a more unfortunate soul. Those who do not detect this misery or look away from it foolishly are pitiful. Yet it is equally foolhardy to stare at the sun. The allure is often too strong, it will not let him alone and as it pulls at him it hides his demise as a puzzle maintains it trick upon those who most yearn to solve it. All choice was but illusion. All reality a fabrication of a funny fool. He will continue to seek out fallen crumbs from a more nourishing table, for in this pursuit alone does he regenerate for brief moments, until his true condemnation is made known in all of its jests. When the table is cleared, the poison is always set in its place, ultimately destroying its victim in a deathly surprise. Much like one man head on against many guns, there was never a chance, only doom in the very act of reaching for one. 

Identity

Sebastian does not know what this could be. It cannot be how he behaves, behaving is not constant or an ultimate; nor can it be what he knows. Those who theorize on this idea do so carefully, but theorizing, arguing, is not knowing. Invention is not knowing. It might be a solution. Does one need not know, than to trust a possibility? 

The Folly Madness

Sebastian feels the influence of wild power. Stretching out across unprotected humanity, it is there pressing into his own thoughts, interrupting his words before he knows what to speak. Leering into his eyes from many strange faces. It lays siege to shy souls. How to escape it? Defeat it? Could he confront it? It bestows a disrupting passion upon him. It takes on the disfigured form of that Unknown, resting in the dark catacombs of the pierced and bloodied cliffside; the brittle bones of those unfortunates who dared battle the force where it lies wiped out, rendered spiritless as a sheath without its sword. Not all are Saint George with sheath and sword. Not all terrible unknowns can be sought in one place. 

Cloaked

Much like a ghost, whose true power to frighten lies in the imagination and may last only a few seconds, Sebastian has little lasting power or influence on that which surrounds him. For most of his reality never leaves the confines of his own mind. His mind is trapped in fatality. 

The Binding

Sebastian Mauser Elias considers that many people have secrets. Surely this is not a new concept and yet, what is so interesting to him about a secret, is that it is locked deep within a non-physical vault, with a cryptic combination to protect it away. Its retrieval might be dangerous and destructive. The act of holding a secret itself is completely neutral, but its power is entirely dependent on the one who holds it. Thus, Sebastian is not interested so much in the consequences of secrets, but in the reasons why they exist and how they control their sentries. These are much more telling about human nature. If the story is ever told. Is he too curious or too fearful of the mysterious? This is how he creates a sentiment on the subject... Sebastian imagines a room. It could be the room of a friend, or, it could be the room of one he does not know well at all. Much like a ghost, whose true power lies in the imagination and the skill to frighten may not last more than a few seconds, Sebastian has little power or influence on that which surrounds him, for, most of his reality never leaves the confines of his own mind. He creates the arrangement of this fictitious room, to perceive of what this moment would be if it existed. Then he places in a dusty corner, a small, black, leather bound book. He knows immediately after it appears to him that this is a special artifact, for it contains all the essence and allure of something that is frequently used by human hands. It rests nearby to other important looking books that enchant the eye with their colorful binding and gold print, but this small book sits slightly aside from the others, enough to signal its presence to the nervous eye as if it were something to be kept watch upon constantly. It almost emits of what it contains by thought alone; in some melody of stale air and silence soon to be disturbed by an unfortunate happenstance, it strikes a fear into them that see it. He doesn't dare open it, for it would surely show him something terrible about himself, some terrible idea that he be better off concealing beneath a binding of vague thought. Better off muting the melody than unleashing an uncontrollable force.