The title is pretty self-explanatory.
The lack of objects is pretty specific to my life. The absence of a subject is fairly subjective, being a philosophical problem and the like, but I am quite convinced of its veracity. Some things cannot be proved but they remain true.
In addition to being specific, lack of objects is a permanent theme. Data is a diagnostic tool and I have been writing here for more than ten years. This should serve as a tool to help diagnose something, but it hasn't-so far, that is.
I intend to change this, but then me and my intentions, or should I say poor me and my poor intentions, never amount to anything.
Recently I have been thrown into a crisis of causality. Earlier I have had crises of meaning and existence, but this one is different, as I find it hard to see causal connections between events. People say, I did x and it resulted in y, but fifty thousand other people did do x to the best of their abilities and yet it resulted in nothing. No y, no z.
Also, I tend to gamble with things and situations these days but to be honest I don't have much left to gamble, apart from my work and my family maybe.
Feedback is almost impossible to get in the world, unless it is in the form of sparse discrete signals, like an acceptance here and a rejection there. Otherwise, people will not say a single true word to your face. This is part of why I am tired of interacting with people once again.
However, I have been informed that I make emotional decisions, and I have taken it to heart. Where else? Thing is, it is hard to rise against a charge you do not understand in the first place. Yet, I am convinced of its conformance to reality.
Reality is another fascinating, beguiling topic. Recently I summarized that my grip on reality is tenuous at best and staggers from time to time. It is generally easy, so very easy to see and diagnose the shaky grips others have on reality, but when the question comes to one's self, things get extremely obfuscated.
Recently I have had overwhelming and negative feedback in a lot of avenues. In fact, in all avenues of life one can think of. It was discrete, it was tangible, it was negative. For some reason, I have simply stopped caring. Things are what they are.
Somehow the crispness of the evening and the promise of spring is tempting, too tempting for me to sit back and indulge in complaining over non-entities. The city is a bit dusty, but it'll do.