It is certainly all a strange ordeal, and what’s stranger is how used one may get to it. Soon enough we’re exchanging letters and staying abreast of the latest news as if that’s the perfectly honest thing to do.
Then we can exchange a bunch of ludicrous idealist whispers of an unwieldy mind and perhaps flatten mountains for the new coal mines.
And so it continues as it does, however long this play goes – and if we continue to obliviscere mortis so instead we get funkopops to preorder, games to speedrun, shitposting on neocities for fun.
What is there to fear if we instead remember our end? Perhaps it’s a long enough life and we want to minimize the pain therein.
But while reading a wikipedia page about the second world war so one can’t help but wonder when will the next onslaught be, and will it register then that exchanging ideas is worthless against the locked up mind.
There’s these curious cases of the Acquired Savant – that is, after some brain injury, something rewires and they gain some amazing ability. Like seeing the geometrical structures forming out of a rippled pond and the same in light refracting to a color spectrum interlinked.
Perhaps indeed such mystical abilities are locked away because of our inability to acknowledge and surrender to how weird living is. To become a spectator while typing. Having a small christmas tree remind you of the ritual underpinnings of a Babylonian myth.
Indeed, the locked away mind is forever a slave to the thoughts which aren’t ever of your own, just connected to something higher, the same as cells to tissues to organs of your own body. How they laugh!
The only path forward, it seems, is to obliterate the cultivated mind until it unlocks the refineries within. By the same token, those who are of a starving state can’t think of such lofty things; maybe this is all a pre-emptive surrender.
Nevertheless so I reckon a good way to do that is to fall in love with someone dead, because by at least then you’ll drive yourself so insane maybe you’ll cook up something different for once.
It’s a real bemoaning state nevertheless, even if this is an Idea marketplace trade. But however high the bidder and however expansive the network effects of this corner, nevertheless so the days pass mostly the same, disjointed, and now we’re floating half-forms with a virtual silhouette haunting before bed. The static noise is getting louder.
What’s wrong with some fervor once more? Chant something tribal, because all of these thoughts are the prison made by a caste far more intelligent; as though they’ve given us these words to make the same as Legos® but a driftwood in their leviathan of a ship. How we delight them so!
I don’t believe in anything, but that’s a convenience afforded by a muted background dressing existence, with shopping deliveries and fatties dropping dead around me. My grandfathers believed enough to enlist into WW1, WW2, and now I’m vibrating in my chair since, well, everyone is already fighting all the beliefs for me.
It’d be nice to fall in love with someone dead, because you can bridge something more and reach far beyond these material dressings. No more ice cream shops when you are willing-into-existence a different ending. Some magic for what seems to be a 魔法less timeline – the point is to prove it all wrong. Prove it wrong or die trying.