Two more posts

Fucking fuck, I thought I'd have ran out of scheduled posts by now. I suppose there must be some that I've readied for months or even years in the future, that seems like something I'd do, and I think I even remember doing it.

What really freaks me out is how I talk of myself in the past tense. I can't believe how I really believed that I was going to do this. And that it was right. That by now I wouldn't be here. Well I guess the person I was already is dead, because we change utterly in the blink of a moment and Hume knew that, and I'm thinking of a quote of his involving darkness and something about a pool and memory, but the closest thing I can find is this:

"I desire those philosophers, who pretend that we have an idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression that produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression operates, and from what object it is derived."

which I know is close but that isn't it at all. It reminds me of how I felt back then, actually. So many ideas and memories rushing, tearing through my head in a maelstrom and I couldn't hold on to any of it, yet it all was so significant, every scintilla blasting through and out and beyond my reach.