To say that I'm 'meant for great things' is a cop-out in the worst way.

I am meant to do nothing and I am meant to do everything. 

We are a meaningless species, assigning ourselves purpose to atone for the maddening sensations of solitude and despair that pervade us.  

I sat outside tonight and smoked a cigarette, and calmly looked through the trees at the cathedral in the distance, and I began to wonder if I know too much now; not in the intelligent way... I guess I'm not making sense... My capacity for intuition has become a vast cistern of interconnecting paradigms and ideas, constantly being worked out, constantly being deconstructed and fully realized, then forgotten. To label this construct a 'beast' is to anthropomorphize it, ultimately belittling its indescribable stranglehold on my senses. To say I consistently look into the eyes of the void would be foolish, because a nameless entropy does not need eyes. 

And I wonder if I can take this sort of reality for long. 

I guess we'll see what's next.