There are no more fourth wall breaks. This isn’t a sideshow viewing and there isn’t anything else to it anymore.
This is just an honest conversation, one-sided and isolated. That’s all.
I can’t even talk to people who text me, live(d) with me. In some ways, closing up neocities a bit more was inevitable.
It took me a long time to realize, but what I love most about writing is stringing bits of permanence in ether; whether gods talk through me or the neurotic parasites infested so whatever results leaves a tapestry.
Feeling the bumps along each sinew, yarn as the idle pathway, or the palace doors: pour it all in blood if you want. Wash it, soak it, crumple it into our dying sun.
I thought I used to write for somebody, for someone – and maybe in a corny driveby one would assert it’d be myself but no – I write for eternity. I write to look for whatever constructed all of this. These words come by not as mine but as part of the larger play we’re all stuck in. When I no longer am directed to write, then I know there must be another place to go.
If you want to be in zen, or some sort of excellence – whatever neurotic remedy you hope for – then it’s best to close the door.
The most beautiful things are found in isolation.
I will no longer settle for the derby-side garden. But at least I can write here. However long. However long.