Project Proteus

How are we defined by others, except by that which we wear, the features that imprint us onto others' memories, our highest achievements and most crushing failures? Eyes like the oldest oceans, worn and weathered, a glint of mischief still lurking within, shadowed at times by the darkest of storms, flashing intermittently with the fiercest of passion, rage, white fire from the heavens. A simple word to define their color is not only an impossibility, it is an injustice to their bearer.

Does it seem fitting that philosophy should perhaps be that to which we resort when faced with the end of what we know, before the beginning of that which we cannot imagine?

Here, wherever I am, intangible, undefined, conscious thought does not follow a set path with which to follow. Ripples of reflections spread outward, tapering off into nothingness. Beginning and ending has no meaning here, it either is, or it isn't.