en·tro·py (ěn'trə-pē) n. pl. en·tro·pies
1. Symbol S For a closed thermodynamic system, a quantitative measure of the amount of thermal energy not available to do work.
2. A measure of the disorder or randomness in a closed system.
3. A measure of the loss of information in a transmitted message.
4. The tendency for all matter and energy in the universe to evolve toward a state of inert uniformity.
5. Inevitable and steady deterioration of a system or society.
I don't know what it is. I mean, I have theories. Perhaps my mind just can't take existing these days, or I've just grown so sick of the world that my attachment to my surroundings is deteriorating. I wonder to myself--what exactly is happening to me? I have been depressed many a time, and I have been rather content, even happy at others. Now, however, my wounded thoughts and mental abilities are being dampened. At least, that's what I assume. I would kill to be able to look at my skull from the outside, because then perhaps I could drag some clarity through the dregs that are spawning inside this festid chamber of bone and dank illusion.
In layman's terms, to my younger readers, I fear I am finally going insane.
There's that adage, that old quip that goes something along the lines of "One cannot be insane if one accepts the possibility of such." I have always believed that. At the same time, though, I understand several key facts about the way my brain operates, and these are them:
+I am forever looped in the past.
+I'm always constructing and modifying failures of plans for my future.
+If my thoughts unearth some detrimental image, it will haunt me relentlessly.
+My thoughts themselves loop on many occasions.
+I routinely appear to completely forget what I've been contemplating for days.
My apparent lapse into temporary stasis is becoming increasingly apparent to my close friends and co-workers. The other day at work, I received about six unprovoked hugs and about as many concerned probings into my haze. The core part of myself, the self-perceived friendly, contemplative, unorthodox factors appear to suffer minimal casualties but still are threatened by the collapse of my entire personality, should that drastic shift ever occur. Extremely unlikely. Improbable. I'm not one to rule things out on any occasion, unless I am completely sound on the point.
My fantasties and dreams mean so little to me anymore. Even the extremely fantastic ones, the impossible scenarios and complete shifts in character and capabilites. I tried to run a standard daydream in my head that I've modified for about twelve years now, and couldn't bring myself to do it. I blame that hiccup on age, but it's not the only one. I regularly lapse into staring at nothing at all, thinking almost nothing at all. This action has been a standard in my repertoire of mannerisms for a long time now, but it seems deeper now.
Again, the ire of my thoughts is the knowledge that I can't analyze anything from the outside, watch my own behaviour and listen to my own subroutines and conscious activity to learn what I can modify to benefit me most. Instead, I'm locked in this infernal brain, connected to these tendons, nerves, blood vessels, bones and flesh. It's becoming hellish in here at times.
I shall keep my focuses on finding a solution to this problem. I thought for the longest time that I had burned my mind out on thoughts alone, considering the amount of contemplation I engage in, but perhaps this was never the case. Whatever that entailed, this new, escalating problem, my approaching detachment from caring about the world needs to be rectified. I cannot live as a machine, and yet I find my bones solidiying into chrome and steel, my blood vessels pumping oil and lubricants. My beating, pained (physically and emotionally) heart is simply a cog-infested automaton of hydraulics and steel.
Lifeless. Mechanical. Mindless.
The complete lack of passion that stems in my life should frighten me, and yet it does not. Not yet. I believe I require some form of help now. I have time to decide how to instigate such things.