Awful Masterpieces

These insomnolent nights of late (in advance of a decision about whether or not I am a suitable candidate to work at this stupendous job to which I have applied [and for which I have interviewed]) are giving me fallible impetus for cursing the epiphenomenal February cold with which I am an have been so grievously afflicted.
I just had a wonderful meeting (accompanied by Desmond and Ivor) with a former partner (you know, like a romanticality-type partner), and I am awed how nobody actually fits into any narrative. You know what I mean? There is always more to every seeming than is comprehensible. I'll explain by way of muddling everything.
The dubious dust-settling clarity that is alleged with hindsight is actually only masquerading as clarity; as "hindsight" is immanently temporal, then all that's happening is the birth of yet another knot.

[On that note, what'd be the word for greater/more/farther hindsight? Hindersight? Call the cops.]

New (re)visions and (re)versions exist only to justify whatever cascading consequence, unrelated agenda, or ambition (degree of fulfillment or folly regardless) that the perceiver perceives the need to perceive. The teller will call it "explaining," but it's only explaining the teller's need to a) explain, and b) tell you about it.
In preposterously crude terms: "Good Friday" wasn't always so good, but now it justifies Easter. Because of things that happened afterward, right? But what if we found out that some profane evildoer sought to perpetuate an as-yet-unspecified injustice by way of inverting the calendar, and that we're participating unwittingly with our half-conscious conceptions of time as we understand it?

"Well, heck," one might say. I would not have started reading this post in the first place.

I remember how Molly said, early in our relationship, to her frenetic boyfriend: "There is no finish line." She was and is absolutely right. I would even say that any conclusion drawn without a distinct timestamp is forgettably flawful. We could be right about one thing in 2012, yet be dreadfully mistaken at a future juncture. Look at building with asbestos, or Urban Renewal, or the Atkins Diet, or the illegality of once-treasured cinematic courtship rituals. What about when all of those tedious texter types have forgotten how to spell AND have developed arthritis in their thumbs?
So, anyway, the thing at which I was getting is that this tiresome apparatus of a "story" that we silly humans are so frequently (even unconsciously) attempting to make of our lives WILL OUTSMART US. Maybe after we’re dead, but eventually. As far as I've been able to construe it, living is a fluid empire.