Sunday Morning Thoughts 11.18.12 – 12.9.12: The Forgotten Month on the Eve of Apocalypse

And it has come at last. I will be making my escape. It will be grand, I’m sure. All these years of talking to mirrors has produced a well rehearsed show.

Here’s a disclaimer. Don’t define escape as you normally would, because this is based upon my own view. Don’t bother trying to see it either. From up here I can tell the bridge is down. There is only one way out and it seems to be not from where we came. From where I’ve come, really.

The culmination of mind drowning bullshit has finally reached the point at which I will no longer stand aside and let it rampage any further. I am on a war path, so to speak. These institutions and bureaucracies have played their hands full. They are stretched and won’t stand up to much, least of all what I have in store. It won’t be violent, unless they listen to what they tell you. If you listen to what there is, you’ll have the proper sympathy. There is only what is. Enough of what should be.

The mass delusion is one of apathy. Fattened on the profitability of some small selections of science that had become viciously marketed, we have become convinced that answers just fall into the lap of those who need it. These answers come from the community that for some strange reason, you know no one who belongs to it. Yet you believe it is, despite the contradiction to the process at practice itself. This is based off of the Snuggie and advances in video stimulation equipment.

Unfortunately and very seriously, we are already over due. I’m over due. I should have been going at this the entire time but like all the rest, I was sitting around watching some screen as I traded between picking my nose and picking my ass. I had caved in the moments expected for triumph and been too bold when I should have said nothing.

We use and use and use, without giving any bit of the slightest damn about how much there is. Or how we can get enough of it back to keep using it. Or what the fuck it could possibly be doing to effect life now. We are just too occupied with some very disgustingly trivial matters to try and investigate. This is all because of social networking and television programming that almost exclusively caters to making appearances for the shittiest rich ass wipes imaginable. It lets a few others in, but making it in this field with dignity is some damn fight. I hope I’m up for it.

If there is anything that could express the development of the cynicism that lives inside of me, it would be this. Go through all of these posts and you’ll find my reactions to events of the past in varying proximities of time from which they occurred. I wrote after heartbreak and tragedy, and even more often just the illusion of those two. I wrote about hallucinated love and ambitions to rise from the muck of civilization. This is only the development, not the completion.

The trick is to be able to stop the bleeding after just the right amount of poison is gone, to keep just a little bit of it inside. Or perhaps I’m mad. Either way, I will aim to never become a complete cynic, nor will I be able to remain the youthful fool from before. My innocence is gone, if innocence is held at the same conditional standards of silence. To know what innocence is, means you do not have it. I may still seem to be nice, but trust me when I say I am not as nice as I used to be. Sainthood is not the aim.

I’ve broken many promises but not all of them are regrets, though they were when they first shattered. Some where necessary, or resistant to dodge but they all happened just the same. They have always happened and maybe they always will. Here’s to hoping the next vase I break is filled with cash. Hoping for cash never ends up fruitless, right? Hope for the hopeless. Turkeys for the turkeyless.

Rail yard

     So that whole thing was written about a week ago, which is about three weeks too late itself. I started to read it to get an idea of where to go next but I didn’t. Fuck it. I just need the now and whatever comes with it. Anticipation and hope have slowed this dope to terrible whiny speeds. Not entirely of course. Still, it’s enough to make the madness feel conflicting where it should be inspiring. Inspiration, how I call for thee. Inspiration, won’t you stay with me? Inspiration, do you even like me?

The understanding is void, so they’ll be no discussion about it. We float around and fill ourselves with chemicals and play with the ideas in our heads to keep from falling asleep. We’ll attach ourselves to our delusion and call it happiness and wallow away the hours until the world cooks itself and doom and gloom prevail. That is, unless I start doing something about it.

It’s not arrogance, it’s really more of guilt. I am among the most wasteful individuals which creates a nice ideological self loathing complex. The amount of things that I have been able to toss away in life is shameful. Many things go beyond simple monetary values too. Real deal stuff. The kind that breaks the bond between man and the all knowing, ever loving cash. Well maybe not break, but tamper with at the very least.

Despite this, I call for man as a whole to change the ways of living deemed fit and change to something that isn’t awful. I say this as I type into my stupid phone about nothing and feel bad about things that shouldn’t get any kind of feeling at all. That, and I may enjoy a beverage or a dozen and make a fool of myself and make mistakes, a lot.

Excellent. I’m going to wash myself now. As in a shower, nothing metaphorical. I imagine I’ll feel better about things once I do. I’m looking forward to it but I should know better than that by now. I hold for the hope of a life filled with hot water. The danger of losing it may be much more immense that you think. Unless of course, you’ve been paying attention.


     So let us now conclude this little fiasco and make it forever immortalized in digital form. I’ll get around to physical copies eventually. Again, I have not re read what was written before and trust me when I say that I’ve forgotten it. The moods between then and now are quite different and I imagine that there’s some sort of reflection in this particular work. Ha! I referred to this as a piece of work. Such a maroon.

The goal, or mission, or objective, is not really any of those things. It is vague, and so perfectly vague that it floats about in the mist of existence, with only the slightest forces pulling it forth and yonder. The best part is that none of that may be true and the force could be grand and beautiful. Or it might not.

You feel this and I feel that. That, of course, changes to this and then you’re left with the other thing and all hell breaks loose. Which is silly, because feelings are silly. I suppose.

They’re not terrible, I’m not cynical enough to say that but I wouldn’t advise you to take such things too seriously. They are very fleeting. Emotions are another story. I think the guide said to dodge them all together. Something about being horribly fantastic, or something of that sort.

Well, I suppose it’s time to wrap this up and make up for all the nothing I’ve been up to, while I should have been doing this type of nothing. Ya dig? I have work to do, and I suppose that I’m pretty serious about it. I’ve been talking and talking and vaguely planning. I have made some means, probably more than I give myself credit for. I have a few avenues to pursue, ferociously of course.

See, that’s the problem with super heroes. People love to believe in them and have that ideal to hold on to when travel throughout the muck and mire that is the world of human experience. Light to the darkness, that sort of thing.

Jesus is essentially a superhero. He’s a supernatural benevolent leader who defies that corruption of the establishment, ultimately at the cost of his life which he gets back anyway because fuck clergy and the empire. A little bit, and really only a little bit, of tweaking and you’ve got a kick ass middle eastern superhero who stands against ordinary foes whilst simultaneously representing an idea for a true and kind justice that inspires the people in the world of the book and in the world of the reader.

I remember, the other evening, or morning rather round five, I was blundering down a street, puffing away at a smoke. I was yelling out loud about my disappointment in reality or something like that. I did this to my room and in my room upon my arrival. The idea that I’ve recalled clearly for some reason is this:

So I was drunk, in the dark of my single room, in my underwear, reflecting aggressive upon existence. This happens more than you’d think. I decided that I use the word wish too much, and I hate it. The word, I mean. I said, to myself, that to wish is to remove any kind of responsibility for the events that unfold. Wishing makes you a victim.

It’s even a shitty word aesthetically. Wish. It’s weak. It is constantly fleeting and running away.

Wish. Wish is the sound something makes when it is travel past you as fast as it can. Wish is the sound of being ignored for some other goal. Fuck wish and wishes and wishing.

Wishing Away

Fuck. Now there’s a word with some gusto.


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