quasi-philosophical bullshit, i hate myself

in every serious human idea
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
 there is an unavoidable lacking in meaning,
  a meaning
 which becomes left behind, 
 sticking in the mire of that amorphous sludge
         of unwordable intuitions and emotions 
         from which it originates:

  ponder this:

 rip the weed from the ground all too fast
   and it will return and it will thrive in a matter of days;
  rip out the thought from the space which nurtures it
   and it will disappear and sink into the quagmire
   of every other neglected and discarded thought;

in every serious human idea
 presented to the world as an engagement with it
 something dire is lost, even has to become lost,
         like a root to a beautiful and fragrant flower
         or like a reindeer getting stuck with its antlers
          tangling them in the sinuous branches of some old tree
          in the panic of fleeing the forest-fire raving all around it:
 drag out the flower with force;
 drag out the reindeer with force;
            both will die!
       the flowers from losing its roots;
       the reindeer from losing its head.

            now,
 drag out - isolate - the flash of genius from the complex electricity of personality;
  define it with language; compromise as to make it as commonly understandable as possible,
  and it too shall die;
  every idea that is born out of the genuinety of individuality,
             having been ouroborically fostered, nurtured by it,
     but has shifted into depending essentially on the mechanisms of the outside
     and its automation with the social machinery of communication
     as a measure of involuntary and instinctual endurance in order to thrive in continuity,
             shall wither with the systems of socialization on whose waves it floats,
             for they can not be of eternal substance; they too
             are aghast by the wraith of ominous impermanence
             haunting and spooking like acoustic feedback all around,
             bouncing, looping
             in the rehearsal room of the final and ultimate end
             with which the idea in itself has become inseparable.