neuro

It’s like there are forty selves and the discussion long derailed.

I’m not even sure if I could organize its flow. Sprawling decision matrices that seem to wrap around, a tree ever sprouting.

Yes? No? Maybe? How so? When? Where? Why? Never. Maybe? Unlikely. Why not? What’s next?

The scenery you’re walking along transforms into a roller and you’re on a conveyor too.

How much of this is purposely precipitated?

What will you do with this flame anyway? Why not? Attachments?

Maybe it’s more of a tribunal and I’m waiting for execution.

Would even splaying it all out have it make any less sense?

This feels like an excuse to write too. It seems to have a simple solution, or a simple analysis, or you could find some maggots festering beneath every word. A cultivation, not infestation. Premeditated.

If I could sum it up under a question – tracing it back to a reasonably thick branch – then it’d be one question: am I allowed to be here?

Am I allowed to be here?

Should I be here?

Where else to be?

How else would you be?

Maybe I crave a longer drama, or a larger spun dream, and there’s not much drama to be had here, or too fractured to make any sense of it.

It just feels like watering a tumor. And I will have to sever it off eventually.

Would someone who tried their hardest to have a rich inner life need a website?

Aren’t there more interesting and important things to do?

But then I say I don’t care to travel.

But then I say I don’t care if I have no friends.

And then I say it doesn’t matter if I died right here.

If this is all true, why can’t I just die silently in my room? Why maintain the newspaper column?

But then I whisper, well, I certainly can, but isn’t that just a rose-tie on my existence? Do we spray a little vanilla for the funeral cards? No one is going anyway, nor would I ever want such things. Surely I need to be here for something else.

Square one, square one, square one. I think it’s about being at square one again.

I’m tired of square one. But all of living feels like one big square – or so I whisper while I remember the portals waiting. Slacking. As Avoiding that which swims around. Angels waiting.

I think it’s more like about being backed into corners and this is the only door left. But it just leads to deeper parts of the maze. One big square.

I ghosted everyone I ever knew. I remove myself randomly. And I am the schizophrenic that writes longwinded messages that end up nowhere.

I don’t know why I am like this.

I’m not sure where this leads.

If anything, I am just rather confident there is nothing else for me to do at the moment. This is apex internet. There’s nothing else to do here.

I’m just tired of maintaing pieces of myself. gluing them silently in my mind.

I’m tired of this need to integrate everything I am.

I just wish someone would tie my hands behind my back and ask me to walk off the plank.

Let the seawater plunge shake me back from this melodramatic living.

Whatever man. Just do whatever until it clicks otherwise.

I’m not going to figure it out writing here.

And yeah I can change tone shifts whenever. I think there’s a lot hiding between all our writing styles.

I will just let the winter breeze make more sense of things.

JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU WANT

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