There is obscured benefit to the conscious dissection of a self. To fully appreciate the process means living as the sinew between selves in a trans-scopic exploration. We are able to multi-abstract our view of someone else’s view of us (ie. who do you think I think you are?). One could be overrun by complexity, or with the proper training, utilize the ability to cross perceive as a vehicle for exploration.
Or… both?
I am caught between our over-pedestalization of self awareness and the negatively connoted self conscious. I am torn between rapid plasticity and the grounding assurance of understanding one's self. As always I wonder if anything is worth wondering. Does that awareness make me more attached to the difficulties when I would rather simply exist and enjoy? Sometimes it feels like I’d be better off surfing and camping on the beach, forgetting there are such things as problems. It all reeks of privilege, but that’s precisely where the world is going. Or at least… that’s where it came from. Humans create internal problems when they run out of external ones. The mind is always trying to solve. All are signs that humanity is progressing along some repetitive continuum as a networked macro-organism exploring damp areas of consciousness, enlightening each other through experience and calcifying best practices.
Some caves are explored and deemed dangerous, some shouldn’t be entered at all; but this one… this one calls to me. Something, maybe something evil, calls to a place in me that says I was born out of an exploration of those cold, dark, endless caverns of the mind; and though it seems many are unwilling to acknowledge that diabolic voice which echoes in their secret chamber of consciousness, I intend to explore and expose as many crevices I can find, and invite whatever lives there to meet me as if it were myself, even if that means I am meeting myself as the devil.
Perpetually the question remains: how much focus should be made on something that brings more attention to the things we wish to avoid. These situations cannot be solved without some effort towards resolution.
Shall we solely focus on solution at the cost of promoting avoidant tendencies?
I am more insecure about writing in a diary than exposing most of my thoughts to a social cause because fundamentally I wish that this struggle was worth something. Or… at least that’s what I tell myself. It could be more true that I am afraid of meeting my demons alone, and wish someone would be there holding me while I shake at the sight of my own demonic nature. Without some worldly being to remind me, internal voices could drown out all else, and keep me eternally in darkness. I must choose wisely, because whomever is exposed to these with me will see the depth of my dysfunction and will have to stomach my full potential.
“No tree, it is said, can grow to Heaven unless its roots reach down to Hell.”
My insecure masculinity constantly defies the idea that I have to share at all, and the risk of entrusting another with my weakest manifestations means handing them a dagger and turning away naively. If they have the same evil inside, it is not just possible, but likely that they will wield that weapon for their benefit.
As time drags on, I constantly consider how diplomatically I must spread those thoughts because we all have our own, and no one person could handle two full people’s evils. I challenge the world of imaginary fluffy bunnies and rainbows, asserting that humanity has the propensity to infect each other with malevolence. It is likely that in every internal difficulty, there is a mechanism that deludes, convincing me that sharing our troubles alleviates the net dysfunction.
“Shared joy is double joy; Shared sorrow is half a sorrow.”
Bullshit. Also… fuck off, feel good proverb number 8,000
Ok, I admit, that was aggressive. There’s obviously wisdom there. Dwelling in negativity is no solution either. Despite how hefty it feels, I’m surprisingly pleased with all of it, including my conflicted psyche and emotional reactivity. As usual, it inspires me to dig deeper, and to be reminded I am very much and will always be… human. It does feel as if I am looked upon with a curious hesitancy.
Is he going to implode from exploring his insides?
I kinda don’t want to watch that, it might be gruesome. Should I help? Can I? Does he even want…
How much digging can you do internally before everything is so chaotically disturbed that thoughts cannot be reordered to connect with other humans?
If sharing sorrow is half of the solution, then why does sharing feel like a traumatic overflowing burden on the royal we? While politicians use illeism to improve their position, I undo my self, fragmenting into more maladjusted dissociated me's. Having this feeling unprovoked, a latent dis-ease, I’m attracted to simplified desires and a regression into hedonism, the other direction feeling more empty than shallow pursuits. I wish I could be seen but am unable to promote myself in the fear someone will see me as possessing nauseating pride—that which I may be developing more deeply for myself during spiteful protest.
Some days I wonder if I should just relent to the apparent confusion of everything and be that which I appear to be. That’s how people treat me anyways, never truly seeing underneath circumstance or their own deluded obsessions.
Get over yourself, Lee.
But also... could someone send a message of approval my way—in any form, no matter how small—so I can be reassured in my pursuit of nothingness?
What do I even want to be seen for?
People aren’t just mirrors of each other, humans naturally surround themselves with the most mirror-like individuals, not just in appearance but also in how they respond. Predictability is nice, keep more of those around. The longer those around me stay predictable, the more deeply I can manipulate them to my desires. Nefarious trust is foundational to modern society, as we have built everything upon Machiavellian principles of good natured men and collaborative progress.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
The same men who arrogantly asserted a delusional conception of freedom held others hostage, sacrificing humanity for selfish advancement. Those same men who denounced religious monarchy waged their own crusade, subsuming a race and a gender—good will harnessed towards imprisoning a generation, and generations to come in war and hate of the worst kind—where we would have to choose more categories to live within. Time did not heal these wounds, and we now live with nervous smiles, waving our superiority about, all while we are torn apart from the inside. Be you shame, activist, victim, perpetrator, or complacent; the participation makes us all less human. We become more and more disgusted with our past, no matter which side we are on. Even worse, all feel powerless in the struggle today, the continued investment densifying a knot in our stomach and making a man wonder…
Am I any less evil than my ancestors?
A free-thinking individual is more chained the longer they spend in a specific social group. The longer we spend, the more we are molded. With all the terribleness in the world, it’s easier to play with surface level events and personalities. So, being a coward myself, I stumbled into groups where everyone seemed to be “thinking positive” and talking about trends.
Here we are, the disingenuous, so aware of our deficiencies that it's ok. We are just enjoying life.
…want a hit?
Is every thing paradox and every human irony?
The pervading opinion is that we should surround ourselves with who we want to become. It is a horrible balancing act, as the more you surround yourself with the becoming, the less clear we are about who we were—not the us of history, but the pure version of life we were born as. Yet we must choose something to become. There are immutable principles in our world, but freedom and equality are not, at least not according to how those words are used today. The two most evident principles—inevitable change and acceptance—once integrated, can be used for a beginning; one where we alter what is in our control, intentionally molding a self based on the entire picture, including talent and genetics, etcetera, etcetera. Though it often takes long to recognize, some core traits persist against the influence of social bodies. Despite being so terribly afraid of interacting within the worlds of the deranged, I may belong better there, and should likely search for friends in unfamiliar places.
I think I just need a friend to laugh at my insanity with
Time increases the strength of shallow relationships because the connection is more tied to the experiences rather than the individual, and the two become more trapped in referencing events rather than ideas. Ideally, we search for timeless connections like love at first sight or fast friends.
Did we just become best friends!
YUP!
As those things progress, however, we realize that there are interactions transcending BFF status. Though these are special bonds that everyone should foster, there are deeper relationships to seek in the cesspool of human interaction.
Ugh… we’re gross, but fuck, I think I’m into it
Sometimes we find the best people in the strange sewers of cities we are new to exploring.
There is something especially freeing about vulnerability with a stranger. They don’t know the history, so it’s harder to judge. You’re not quite sure they are gonna stick around, so who cares. And they don’t know your family, so who are they gonna go spreading that stinky gossip to? Nobody that matters. We are free to experiment with the most taboo versions of a self.
Sorry strangers, we’re all test subjects today.
The things I aim to discuss are always an intricate web of experience, idea, fantasy, and lore. It is not just the nature of my past that I am uncovering, but the things that are influencing my future. The current expression includes the many timelines of possibility, of everything that I might hope to become. To fully explore that, the people I seek must be messier than “just friends,” as they would hold the trigger to a warhead that would obliterate my world. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I need to hand out bigger bombs, or to find a crafty way to show someone where the end reality button is, without them knowing that they hold that power.
Could you please hurry up and annihilate this me so I can try on a different one?
I kinda liked the last one, maybe I'll just bang my head enough to forget the "lessons" of my previous collapse.
There aren't enough drugs to forget those who made me... me.
This exploration, at least for me, is unavoidable. Despite ignoring it for a lifetime, the theme remained: I have invested in avoidance, and no matter where I go, I will be reminded that we have to face our cosmic transgressions. I was gifted with that burden, the one that makes me quiet and observant and places me always in a strange place just one step behind where I want to be. I could ignore it only for so long, until the misaligned self began picking at exterior circumstance and unraveling a “well built” life. I wished I could fake it until I made it, but some force kept everyone and everything at the perfect distance, keeping me longing for a chance at a normal life. Even when I achieved some semblance of normalcy, there was this… something else… nagging me to ask the difficult questions.
Most people don’t like to hear the truth, they only absorb that which sounds nice. It is a perfect recipe for cozy delusional conformism. Truth is self evident, as experience sifts through the gold-pan for nuggets of wisdom. Only the most gaunt and desperate become willing to stomach the difficulty of peddling the dirt-caked nuggets which everyone else discards. It becomes a lonely errand, one which pushes many away. To be an agent of truth sometimes means you have to scare away cowards who reject free thought with their smug regurgitations.
I’ve been on a lonesome journey for some time, considering and reluctantly testing if releasing that proud propensity for stubborn mindset could bring a companion to me. I became the coward which I so detested in an attempt to show someone, anyone, that I was worth spending an evening with. As always, I was a shell of a human without my authenticity, and a bad liar to boot. Either the cosmos whispered in many a ear and puppeteered them away, or they all smelt the stench of the coward I was becoming. In the end, none were more revulsed than I of the person I was becoming.
Quite possibly, we all have a calling in this world, and this has become one of those. The near deadly blows of rejection and insane manipulative cruelty may have been exactly what was needed to turn me upon these ideas.
“By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you'll become happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.”
It seems that men wander about improving their most attractive traits in hope that a pretty lass will notice them and fill that emptiness with a desire—any desire—to purpose themselves on reality. But as the emptiness is filled, joy follows, and complacency consumes.
Why act on any purpose when being lazy with you feels so good.
Most, if not all of my “self improvement” is protuberant assertion that I’m worth cuddling with. Is that all I search for? Existential warmth at the cost of drive. What I’m willing to sacrifice for companionship is astounding, despite being such a mulish introvert. If you are willing to sacrifice a core life purpose just to spend an afternoon with someone, it starts to make life seem a little… pointless.
In ironic consequence, filling that “need” brought me emptiness, inducing more intense cravings.
Would you torture me so I can feel something?
At least she cared enough to manipulate me.
I hold a dark attraction to those who are willing to risk entire realities for the chance that I might fill some of that emptiness because I’m often taking that same risk with people who so clearly don’t deserve it, and most often barely notice I’m doing it at all.
Does anyone care anymore?
Did anyone ever?
How are we so disconnected from how drastically we are altering ourselves through others by not making an effort? The more someone is ignored, avoided, or in worst cases unexplainably ghosted, the more a person’s view of reality degenerates. The more our collective perception of reality decays, the less available pioneers we can find to share the exploration of the increasingly important dark corners of humanity.
Not just that, but without someone willing to embark on these pilgrimages, all we have left are wet bags of flesh to shallowly and repetitively seek pleasure with.
We are all drugs and simultaneously the dealers, selling off tastes for a hope that we will co-opt each other’s addiction.
Are we just symbiotic fiends of affection, feeding off each other until we perish?
What level of balanced destruction is appropriate before we expire?
What is any of this but a recount of flaws, stories that someone who cares can laugh with us and identify with?
Look at me! I'm terrible.
Haaa that's amazing! Me too.
Attractively promoting our biggest mistakes is often the most impressive thing we can do. Hey... come closer, we can be pathetic together.
Just make sure you don't unload the entire insanity all at once, even I'm scared of that guy.
This may be a root of our societal dilemmas. We stomach each other’s terribleness because the other option is lonesome. It all seems like a conciliatory approach, like making friends in prison.
We’re stuck here together, might as well pass the time.
Without solving core necessities, the worst parts of a person spill out into their relationships, infecting groups, society, and eventually humanity as a whole.
A person cannot find an optimal companion without spending time with sub-optimal examples, all building evidence that optimal isn’t possible. Additionally, how do we know what best is if we’ve never experienced it? Practicing badly is bad practice.
How the fuck does anyone get good at anything?
Can I fail upward now please?
never-mind up, I’d rather fail into your arms.
The window of sufferance widens with our degenerating standards because it has become so horribly torturous to be alone. Everything we see is an illusion of a beautiful life, making ours feel hopelessly inferior. The motive to make real connective effort is sedated by our ability to connect with apparitional renditions on a screen. The examples of others feeling a sense of belonging is distorted because in those moments, when the pictures are captured, those people are playing versions far from authentic.
How am I supposed to both on all of reality?
I can't seem to say no to any experience. Though I did decide that the internet was worth less of my time than anything else, until now of course.
The internet doesn't care about you, and nobody in it really does either. It is a selfish game of depravity for the deprived. It is the most devious negative feedback loop. We are, all of us participating, showing each other how pathetic we are while playing coy. Everyone has a reason to participate. Even if you can't muster a trivial one, it's ok, society has done it for you. Welcome to being a blind cog generating wealth for some assholes who couldn't stop the behemoth if they wanted to. We are all a fleshy glob on a freakish cyborg juggernaut that doesn't even know it has feet, tumbling along sucking in the innocent in a bloody snowball. It is an infection as nefarious as humans are to the Earth.
But... I created you, you can't kill me...
If we wanted to turn it off we'd have to all do it at once, and just like a game of chicken, the horrifying truth is that someone, probably many, would stay in just for the chance that they could stick around long enough for a reboot so they would be poised at the top to suck dry anyone willing to shamelessly return. It would be the stock market run by the cows for the cows.
Mooo! Freedom!
When a society is rooted in greed, there is no escape. Someone will always sell their soul. The next weakling to stumble into the trap will be exploited for all their innocence and, once fully drained of their life force, spit out and left to waste away, craving to return to the torture they never asked for, but we’re too unaware to avoid. What was once a human being and is now a cybernetic life sack being mined for systematic “growth.”
Are you still a being if you’ve sold the last remnants of compassion for a chance that your “problems” may disappear from the next futile pursuit?
Ultimately the void we avoid will manifest in ever evolving materialist pursuit. There is no distraction that can save a lost soul.
Is that any different from how I approach employment? I am solving for some empty slot when I decide to make someone my boss. Even when you work for yourself, the customer still owns you, for without them you are worthless. I mean… financially, of course.
heh… heh... Ya…
Comically, my friends see none of this, thinking that I am living in some sentient clarity of the best way to earn money without selling my soul.
He’s smart and capable, he can do anything. Plus he’s always gonna surprise me so we might as well predict that it will be unpredictable. I just hope he’s happy doing it.
Trust me, I’m surprising myself too, and the aim is not happiness.
Clarity is impossibly far in the lens of society. There are too many cloudy influences, ones we rarely know the origin of, and have not enough time to sort through. Decisions have become less rational for me as time ages and I become more childlike in my process of finding direction.
Uhhhh, ya… this one feels? right.
I hope there isn’t a color choice too, that would ruin me.
It’s no surprise that many otherwise sentient beings leave the decision making in the hands of a collective group of “experts” and make every effort to avoid exposing how deeply they are pretending. If those we follow are found to be so lost, where would that leave us.
“The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don't know.”
That ignorance is the most freeing feedback loop—that you are as sentient as the genius with all the “answers”—and possibly more aware in not knowing. The best possible situation for initiating growth is to place oneself in a state of complete ignorance, delimited entirely, prepared to download new lessons effortlessly. Stories are just that—lessons—and it is the individual’s life work to put them to use.
So just for fun, I'd like to highlight the journey that brought me here to a place where I laugh at creators protesting new technology because, quite honestly, I never wrote for money and the machine is only as powerful as those it eats.
I write to survive the weighty existence that flows from my mind-space, infecting reality and all those around me. I AM a burden on existence and anyone who comes near because my imagination is infinite, doomed to infect you with too many details of the many things you wish were never spoken, but live freely through cracks in my skull. I am a fissure in perspective, allowing any otherworldly idea to experiment through me. Are these thoughts emerging through Hell's portal or a place of infinite wisdom? More likely they are naïve toddler dreams turned nightmare by living long enough to see how evil humans can become.
I spent a great deal of time distracting myself in pursuits that pulled me further from entertainment, screens, and corporations. I began working in increasingly insulated ways, relying on word of mouth or the simplest algorithm: Google search, call me. I pridefully encouraged this approach while coveting the results of the many who successfully piddled in their “self” promotion. I always tinkered with entering the space, but it never really felt right, not even when I used it “correctly.” I was secretly a hypocrite that wished I was less afraid of failure so simple things as screens wouldn’t keep me from my dreams.
Am I really going to let this pathetic wall stop me…?
I now sit on the precipice of a decision to relent completely while holding the tiniest shred of a reminder that this is who I am, knowing full well that the place I choose to go may consume me completely.
It can’t be that bad, can it?
Regardless of how trivially people approach the internet, it will always feel like a wicked place to me, where the ignorant go searching for knowlege just to be swindled and sucked of their life force. I feel this as someone who senses a disparate experience between co-existing with humans and the attention vortex of digital things. Daily, I descend into the depths of the internet holding a matchbook of memories, hoping I may find a few who are searching for light in all the wrong places.
Though I chose, and continue, to bullheadedly bash my externals on structures that refuse to break, the contents of me didn't spill out until I found a pen and a coffee stained pad.
How am I weaker than these delicate structures?
I, hopelessly addicted to taking naps with a half full cup of joe in my lap, would jolt awake with wild ideas that filled notebooks for nobody to see lest they survive as ashes of fires that will always be more enlightening than my words. Then I’d finish my coffee.
Simultaneously a thing was brewing among us—an "artificial" revolution, where hackers had co-opted history into telling our future—an apocalypse dressed as art. Look at all we can create with the language of dead poets! Have we all forgotten what poetry is? If we could be so deceived these bots would have to imitate the subjective experience of a crease of the imagination tickling another, asking if there could be some shared neuron in a quantum dance for brief moments that transcend time and unite us to geniuses we'll never meet.
Slowly they stoked embers waiting for us fools to fan flames with popularity and insert enough attention points for it to matter. Now we attempt, with the same wind we could aim at our sails, to put out the flames we claim to be engulfing our only means of creation, only fanning them further and accelerating the waste of energy.
I watched it all, unaware of the irony, as I plotted to use those same devices to light a different fire, and incite a revolution that the world had not yet seen. Comically, I now sit between worlds, attempting to use both methods to become a well dressed Frankenstein.
Am I going to still be asking questions at the end of this disaster?
And here I am, seeing others show up to subuniverses as somebodies while I appear as nobody, attempting to be even less somebody-ish, coveting the very thing I claim to be working to reduce. Somebodies always have a following, as they are trained in spoon feeding feel-good rhetoric to dopamine addicted nitwits. I am not at all surprised that few choose to support mean comments that appear condescending. With every thought of mine exposed, the world becomes more aware of how much I despise the thing they’ve become. Although my intent is to undo—or rather transcend—the depth of diseased stupidity that we continue to promote, most see it as me poking their flaws in some vain attempt to promote my superiority. A superiority which I feel little, or none of.
I don’t think they understand.
It doesn’t seem like anyone wants to hear me babble on.
How childish of a pout is that? Not enough people want to play, I need everyone to like me! It exposes the truth about my nature—that I feel inferior, to nearly everyone I see. I am envious of youth for their innovativeness and innocence, of age for their wisdom and skill, of women for their beauty, of men for their strength, of the intelligent, of the creative, of the talented, of the inspiring, of the confident and the courageous. I envy all because I see myself as not having the things they are best at, and always ask of myself more.
Radiating from my core is a wrathful thing that is disgusted that I even considered creating things based on what I thought you might like. It grumbles at me disappointingly, doling out resentment towards a current self for a younger me being too afraid to live.
As if I were the same person then, that I am today
I spent too long in complicity, believing things would “work out,” like everyone claims they will. They forgot the precursor: if you work, things will work out.
But wouldn’t it be nice if you could validate my vexatious style? I still have feelings that respond to a follow, a like, or a subscribe.
Alas, “wouldn’t it be nice” is more a statement of weakness than of need
It’s true, as it always has been, that popularity is inexorably tied to money, and financial freedom linked to well-being, and well-being linked to… everything. That has never stopped our best earners from finding themselves in a lively, well decorated Hell, despite all of their wishes being granted. We can make up all sorts of reasons for this and use it as justification for our own failed pursuits. But it is all a mind game, and we are being played. If you’d like not to play the game I can tell you, it is no better, and the repercussions are lifelong.
Scars grow on the consciousness as they do on the body, neither can be hidden forever.
So if not for money what am I playing for, and what is your involvement? We are here together, poking around my scarred perception AND you paid to see it. But why? I can’t answer for you, but for reasons I don’t understand I’m still attached to what it means for you to pledge pennies towards something (me) living authentically, most of all because I know how much of our time is invested in “earning.” Somehow, I feel this is worth something to you, with no evidence to prove it. I am flawed, fundamentally, despite utilizing all my energy to prove something otherwise.
God, could you make me more godlike? Thanks, promise I won't abuse it.
It would be nice if a bunch of people liked me. It would be nice if absurdity + creativity = sustainability. At least… it would be nice for me. But who cares really? And should you? Should I? These words are just extensions of an exploration that a mind is enjoying. Shouldn’t we just let the lil guy dance around awkwardly. Dancing doesn’t need validation, it’s better when we do it silly style anyways. If only we could separate care from significance and significance from validation.
It seems the internet severed our ties to care but bolstered the ties to validation as a consequence. Maybe I could change things. Maybe all I need is a Tik-Tok-able dance and the ability to turn back the clock to when I was cute and love-able in all my dysfunction. Now I’m quickly wrinkling into evidence that I made many irreparable decisions on my extended path to a life I should have been living a decade ago when people laughed at my eccentric explosions. But I’m late to every game, that’s what happens when you nope out of things. I’m already close to obsolete, at least that’s what 20 year old me would have said about his future self. So what am I to say about 40 year old me? He’s probably a failure, having exhausted every lofty aim imaginable while lazily working to discover the true limits of impossible, hoping to meet a benevolent alien race which uncovers the secret to non-linear time and allows us to peer into dimensions beyond paradox.
As I write this I travel without means, crashing where necessary, including park benches, sitting in the grass of beautiful lands of beautiful people who all enjoy their opulence. Well… except for the bums on the other bench. They’re just like me? Not quite, the coffee shops still let me in to leech off their wi-fi so I can talk to you, and the system still allows me to wave around plastic under the promise that I will participate later. The story we reluctantly hold hoists us as well, and no matter how far we travel, there was an investment made in the path you trod today.
Where should I go next?
I didn’t earn this, maybe I should be suffering somewhere or contributing to something other’s will be proud of me for.
Am I the alien I wish I could discover?
It’s too late for me to flirtatiously wave my aimless stupidity about saying: “love me, I’m finding myself!”
These are the origins of purpose—true purpose—when all the ghostly shadows of all the things you thought were true fade and you are left staring at passing people as if they are alien because they seem so content in their meaningful meander. And I wonder…
Are we all just strolling to our death?
Why can’t I enjoy the things in which so many people derive their meaning?
What am I doing…?
Pretend you’re grown up already, would ya?
But why wouldn’t I pursue such things? Many creatives dream of the freedom that is unbridled imaginative profligacy. It appears ironically selfish and is baseless to think just because I have no direct logic to inform the decision to continue I should stop something that is overflowing in such a capacity that it could be more valuable than any of understand.
Reason has infected the answers to all our questions.
Why?
Because I’m here, and chocolate feels good.
We seem to need reasons for everything.
“The rational man will always doubt if he is completely right.”
A creative man will always doubt if he is completely sane.
Would I be producing any content if not in the hopes that another human might look at it and say: “you’re worth it?” All validation is that way, an indirect assertion that what you’ve done matters to someone else, the only measurable reflection of your significance in the world. It must be done indirectly, pitiful you matter slogans never made much difference in my world.
We are simultaneously matter and insignificant nothingness bonded by unostentatious forces. Welcome to the paradox, you don’t matter either, get over it. If we were more blunt and honest about it all it might accelerate our development. Don’t worry, you don’t have to, I’ll do it for all of us.
Even worse are those (including me) that try to assign significance to every moment.
“Each moment is a lesson and every second a blessing.”
Firstly 🤮
Second, do I have to live and laugh too? It’s hard to love moments when they are so…
Ick
Can’t each moment be significant as one spent here, instead of needing to connect the dots of everything? That’s probably the point of all this over-bludgeoned Neanderthal poetry.
HEY, DUMBASS! Could you shut up about your superior intellect and enjoy life, it’s not that complicated.
It seems we must constantly repackage wisdom for the new approaching cognitive and social complexities that are reborn with each generation.
Jesus, I thought we solved that one already.
We did, the Devil gets a second coming too, sorry.
It is one of the few things in this world that might not be cyclical, despite the theme appearing as such. Our abilities are advancing faster than our awareness, ever exponentially towards our own overwhelm. The gap between our ability and the ability of our tools is growing wider with each innovation. At some point, the tools are going to be so advanced that we will have access to everything, and need to do nothing.
While we feed minds to innovate for physical difficulties the ego feeds off the subsequent success as an inevitable downstream vulture orbiting our streams of consciousness. We label the whole production “betterment” as the ego silently grows under our nose.
But even art is an egoic expression, as is the human. All worldly creations are egoic in nature. And doesn’t that upset you? Being labeled an ego. But isn’t that what the ego would do: act out when discovered? Before you get mad, go discover yourself, come back, tell me how it went.
How could anyone hold any truth as self evident if they have yet to ask of themselves the things which create them?
To those who denounce labels: we can’t starve the ego, he has a purpose here, to clean up all the bits we didn’t need so the stream can trickle back to the ocean. The source doesn’t want your leftovers. Quit holding onto the things that should be recycled.
We spend so much time trying to be something more or less than what we are: aiming to be a God, or relegated to being animals, forgetting in the struggle how to human being. We spend time as children arguing for adulthood, while the aged wish for youth again and to be given another chance not to waste the time wanting to be something else. As we wish to be returned we forget that we are still doing the same, pointing in a slightly different direction.
It's ok to aim high and wild. Just don't forget, you are not your aim, the inevitable miss, or the thing that inspired it. You are the tension of the bow, waiting for the right moment when breath aligns with sight and it’s time to let go.
I'm embarking as the arrow on a flight to honor all of what we are, even the things we demonize most. The evil in the closet and the monster under the bed all make us who we are, despite how much they make us dread; because looking despite the fear is what makes them disappear.
I firmly believe each human is an artist, channeling some timeless energy towards a physical purpose as… leftovers? It would make complete sense to me: what is there to do with an overflowing piece but spill more liveliness on other canvases, the floor, and all the walls? It would certainly be more fun than trying to fit it all on one page.
Just don’t spill your vivacious filth on me yet, I haven’t decided if I like you.
As someone who doesn’t feel the need to create anything when I have the right person sitting next to me, gently exploring each other’s consciousness, it’s hard to see it any other way. Art, like authentic interaction, has the power to fill those sneakily deficient spots which were not fed for some reason.
What we fail to realize is how much making something changes the person making it. It either sanctifies or desecrates the original idea in the process through the flawed flails of our incapable embodied hopes and dreams. It mutates us all, worst of all the person creating it.
Am I better seeking relief by release or by stacking imaginary gold stars, proving only to myself that it was worth the repression?
I must choose: vomit vibrantly in the hopes that someone will label it aromatic art, or concentrate my divergent thinking into congealed balls of cleverly hidden misery, tucking them into bulging corners of an already dense mind.
Amidst it all I am chronically insecure about everything, most of all the monster we may create. Enviable artistic genius comes at a cost, turning the entire show into a grotesque performance instead of an innocent gathering where we all watch a clod play with clay. The audience shapes the piece by approval, and the once pure innovation is transformed. We all become the show as shapes simultaneously forming each other. At least spotlights only point one way or your ugly would be on display too. Laugh and applaud, cheer or sneer, I am becoming the best and the worst of you, a symbol of what will become of your children’s children.
Everything you approve or disprove becomes a prophecy that infects the future of those you hold most dear.
Take care to not love or hate me or I may become the horror of your wildest dreams.
But I don't blame you. After all, I invited you here into the diseased mind of someone who can never quite figure out what parts of reality are real.
What I really want is an irresponsible love-hate cliff dive that inspires a beautiful tragic monster resultant of our shared blind trust.
Will we grow wings and join in Icarus like hubris, or plunge into Hades with everyone who still toils for lifetimes building imaginary bridges to Elysium?
More deeply this is a cosmic agreement with reality that I am placing as a reminder for a later me. I was/am complicit in the next creation, and there is no-one to blame but existence and the fact that we only get once chance at this.
Thanks life, but can I get a re-do?
Every day is a new collapse of what I thought was true, every experience another opportunity to shed what I thought was me, what was you, what was every thing between. Assumption fades only when we appreciate the humiliation that comes as a result of the micro-death held in each awakening.
My writing will continue to be a representation of life, with no premeditation that creates itself while I write. Know none of what I post here behind the curtain is planned or has an agenda. I hold that sanctity for those who choose to infect themselves with my thinking. Is it gross that I am inviting you to pay for wandering towards your own insane demise? I think not, as all behavior is an addiction and every addiction is this way. I would happily pay for someone to caress my evil into a placated state of affection toward the lulliby which brings me closer to death.
I do hope and strive to be an unbridled expression of life. These things will come unrestricted and without schedule to represent both the love I have for every experience and the contempt I have for being thrust into a body that needs it.
Maybe I’m saying this as a warning because annoyingly, I care about you and don’t wish these thoughts upon anyone. Maybe we are holding hands on a path to freedom. Maybe all these are reminders of the location of the insanity and pointers away from it. Maybe we are attracted to each other to live out perverse desires as examples of ways not to live. Regardless I choose to participate in it all, anxiously awaiting what’s next.
I once thought the answer was loving all and inspiring freedom. Really I was asking through action, hoping I would be answered in kind. But I received a consequence: I was attracted to all, getting none, while I hopelessly attempt to hold on. My wide net had too many holes to capture what I really need.
How much of life is just pouting because we didn’t get what we want?
While still knowing most of the time we don’t even know what we want, lest of all what we really need.
How much of need is what we want, cloaked in regret of things we didn’t get?
yet…
Come here, be free to think your worst thoughts, knowing that the best of us share that pain. Set it loose on me if you like, cause I already feel it, and we can at least commiserate.
But don’t forget to bring this out in the world with you because the process includes everything, especially our little interruptions. Those spicy little moments are what makes life so sweet, despite it constantly feeling full of bitter thoughts.
I’ll never be the best, I’ve always been so close
Is his heart in it
Is a heart in a chest
What did I need most
Far from genius
One point, one mistake, the tiniest change
Did someone forget
Add that one last
A section, a part, an attribute
A tragic occurence
One piece of inspiring art
No ribbon to wear, no record to boast
A loss
Lost
Creativity
At what cost
We’re making a monster
You and me
Picking at subtleties
The wounds of our past
Repulsive and oozing
The failures and trash
Of choices worth choosing
Forget you were a mistake
We’re making a monster
Come a little bit closer
We can share
We can care
Get lost inside of here
Maybe you’ll find a fuzzy me
A cute little devil
Who creates this dream
There is always one place on earth where you belong just as you are, surrounded by unconditional love. Sometimes you deserve to treat yourself to coming back to that place to be bathed in the energy of life and to give the gift of yourself to those who love you. I bet you will find out that the monster you think you are creating is actually a beneficent and beautiful creature.