I have been on the cusp of not knowing what to say for ages. Or coming up with some conviction out loud that minutes later seems made up, because of the spontaneity of the sub conscious. I want you to think I am artistic by my aesthetic, and pay little to no attention to the content of my mind.
See? I just made that up.
What I haven’t made up is that sometimes my insides don’t feel as smart. I want to school you on military strategy. Or read greek tragedies. Or even pretend I like Bukowski so I can use his books as ornaments in my bookshelf and profess I revere nihilism. I only revere my own. Bitches.
And Bukowski is an example of senseless fandom. He is the popstar. The James Dean.
I don’t care about a culture of no cause. I care even less for a culture of all cause.
I want “cause and effect” to drop from reality. I want to live in probable truth. The it-can-happen of it all. Some call that optimism. I call it math. Which coincidentally I’m horrible at.
I so badly want to give a shit about the state of affairs. And I do. I start with you. I’ll feed you, and listen, and nod, and let you project. Because you are creator of realities. Don’t you know? Of course you do.
I’d say my fatal flaw is monologuing if it had anything to do with not letting people talk. But it’s mostly that you, luminescent virtual page, pixels of rainbow and blinding light, harborer of imitation carbon, harborer of 2d thoughts, prison guard, you might be my only friend. Is my fatal flaw that I love that which cannot speak back? Doubtedly. For I plagiarize the words of my loved ones as if my mind were one with theirs. I want this beer I am not drinking right now, to be a cigarette. I want these keys to be a fountain pen. I want the conglomeration of all benign to curl the putrid skins in the nook of a giant arm. This arm is the breath of the sixth extinction. The efficacy of my doughnut thoughts makes a fool out of me. I want you to understand this metaphor, but I don’t trust you. It means shallow, spongy, hard to chew. I cannot bother with research. It has suddenly become fashionable to just read the headlines. And the you-know-what of it all is laughing at me. These, my friends, are called persecutory thoughts. Except that asshole really IS after me. He throws pebbles at my glass window to take me out dancing on my lawn, under the moon that in a few generations you won’t see. Only enemies attempt enamoring. He puts that dagger on my throat to tease me, but quickly puts it away, as he realizes if he were to posses me, I would take over. Like a fast evolving virus.