All knowledge about the world, or all efforts to understand it, may be nothing more than another thing added to its contents.
-Jorge Luis Borges, The Yellow Rose

That perhaps explains the futility one feels while trying to describe a …. (…what should it be called?)

Refer diary entry of 20/03/07 and the one following 3/03/07, regarding the hazy cogitations of the night before.

We are all a product of fluctuations...

We are all a product of fluctuations. Everything is a random arrangement of incidents and images cluttered together, and then some combination clicks and Voila! something happens. Somebody is born or somebody dies, or life continues along an altered path. Or among the plethora of events, most of which seemingly unrelated, one emerges out of the chaos like a face in the clouds and nothing is the same evermore. Order emerges out of chaos. The fluctuations arrange themselves coherently for a fleeting second and then fly away like wisps pf clouds, but the face remains frozen. The result stays on. If some some such fluctuation had not occured, I would not have been born; I would not have been writing this. The universe would not have existed. I'd have been a seed lost in the background of chaos...the seed which never sprouted. I am a random occurence. I am a random event. I am a product of fluctuations. And eventually I will again end up into nothingness when I die; lost once again into that chaos, whence I came. And then perhaps once again I will be born if the chaos arranges itself so in such a way; maybe not in the same shape I am in right now. And then once again I will die. ad infinitum?