I am infinity, and infinitely unmeasureable. What I am is unresolved.
The 'I' which I perceive is the flimsiest sliver of being, rocking horribly against infinity. When I say 'I am,' I speak of the being which is, which was, which could have been. The being which could never have been is relegated to droplets in the ocean, and I am the vessel which cuts through the water.
I am the possible floating atop the sublime. The 'I' which I perceive as being the total of my existence accelerates ever-further away from the improbable at a rate of knots.
The sliver of I lists on the infinite waters, and I become mentally sea-sick. I am no match for the sickness, the swaying, and I hold out no hope of a cure on my own.
The failures of the past - choosing the wrong career, the wrong woman, reflections of moments when I should have done more, or less - are the scum and the misery upon which I am suspended.
Without cataloguing every single thought and experience I've ever had, without being able to rebuild the sea wave by wave, then I am unmeasurable. What doctor wishes to piece together the water, the force, the spume which condems me?
