Hoo boy what a night.

The kind of things that history brings to your lap like a dog with a saliva soaked paper that you never wanted to read.

Imagine graphing the absorption ratio of particular letters set in times new roman when they interact with particular kinds of dog diets.

"The dog ate a snail today, those Ns are in for a world of hurt" That sort of thing.



You know, I've been straying from the path a bit lately. I remembered today.

I really do hate every person on the planet.

Except for you, of course.

You, you I love. I love you like the way I can't stand being stuck in the bottom of a well, or pinched at the waist in a cave with spiders in my mouth.

I love you the way I can't even tell it to you because the barrage of bare Burke is enough to cave your fucking life in ten hundred times a second and what am I supposed to do then fine fuck. Alright.

Alright.
Yes. Calm down. Say yes to things and not no to things.


Don't even belief in a thing.

Just philosophy a thing and ask "what is a thing" that sort of thing, you fuck.

Yes yes yes. Ask about life instead of be in life, that sort of life. Alright.

What kind of relationship do you have to your own thought, what sorts of things are worth caring about, or, what sorts of things should you ignore.

Alright.

Check please.

I had a dream last night where I killed myself out of spite; my sister had been doing something (I forget what) that I couldn't stand, and I had that impossible-dream feeling where you can't make something happen until you do another thing, and the two aren't all that connected. Anyway, to alleviate the feeling I jumped in front of a train and killed myself. It was the first time I remembered dying in a dream. It was awful and I felt awful when I woke up, but I knew also that I deserved the feeling. Then, 5 minutes later, I was all like "yes, you are an awful person, but... you only think you deserve it because you still believe in sin" and then, five minutes after that, I chastised myself both for my iconoclasm and for my lack of contrition. Anyway, I'm scared to sleep now because I think I've killed my dreams and sullied the good things in me which were left unsullied (there weren't many probably).

I wish I could say I love you in that brutal savage way that I know is waiting and lurking in the corner parts of my veins. But, instead, I say it and it is the song of my weakness, weird and soft, callow, fickle, all of those things alright. One of these future days I'll force it out of you with brutality and the husk of me will molt. Probably probably.



These long days I keep reminding myself that the seconds I steal from you are still the precious ones and that I'm living a second life like a phoenix because everything that is, now, shouldn't really have been because of what I was. A few years lost to idiocy and fake fake fake things, and now scrabbling back into it. Alright fuck.


I feel like a weak man both in the ways that I give in and in the ways that I resist.

What kind of ways are left for me.

What does Buddha tell you to do when you've taken the middle way and it leads you to the same? Oh, right, Buddha doesn't 'tell' you anything. He tells you what you know: life is suffering. And, then, he hints at what can't possibly be true: that it's an illusion. Life wouldn't be suffering if it was an illusion, it's the reality of it that makes it what it is. It'll take another two thousand years for religion to present suffering without exulting or denying it.


"There are things."

What kind of religion is that?