Lost, but free

I am quiet. The idea of having a conversation with someone, with anyone for that matter, isn’t completely lifeless, but I don’t feel like having one. I don’t want to breathe life into it and give it some bloody hopes and make it fly high. And it hurts to see that people are judged by others all the time on what they do with themselves, not on how they feel. There’s this invisible blanket over you for everyone else that hides your feelings from them, or is it the fact that they are just too blind to see? I bet you know the answer. I wonder when lust grabs us by our balls, where does that blanket go? But I am just quiet. Observing things that others are doing around me. Observing.

Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. Quiet and honest. An accurate description of me at the moment. What’s my profound truth? Fuck if I know. I can’t tell one. There are quite a few, and the problem with all of them is they all take a piss at you at the same time and makes your mind go in circles for hours, even days. And then you can only hope to get out of that shit hole. Hope is a bad thing. It means you are not what you want to be. It means that part of you is dead, if not all of you. It means that you entertain illusions. People ask you, what do you want to be son? And before you answer that centuries old question, those heartless impostors give their valuable advice that you never asked for. Thank you for asking the question in first place, you herd of dejected limps. That invaluable advice. No, they don’t want you to wander alone.

“To wander farther was to wander alone. To rely wholly upon oneself.”

So no one’s reading literature today, huh? A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words in our literature, which the wisest men of antiquity has occurred, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of – and yet we learn as far as to read easy readings. Time to stop masturbating on our lives and focus on something important, eh? When I think of it, of all the advice I’ve got in past, I can stamp it all with my ass and mail it to i-reject-it-respectfully street of some city with buildings touching the skies of nowhere and people with morals as low as hanging breasts of an antique whore you keep on an exhibition in a museum.

She was an artist once, now she is art. She went through a world-evolution which is endless. It turned her inside out, voyaging through God knows how many dimensions, to discover herself, only to find out that the story she had to tell was not that important as her telling itself. This is what gives her the metaphysical hue, which lifts it out of time and space and centers it to the whole cosmic process. This makes her therapeutic. Those people, not so much. They don’t think in cosmological terms. It is only possible way to think if one is truly alive. They care about figures and are sucked into a statistical black hole. And then they hope. Absurd.

Then some of us write. A child has no need to write. He is innocent. We write to throw off the poison which we have accumulated because of the false way of life. Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of help except by being kind, generous, and patient. We write to overcome the world, and thus finding it. For we must not only be in it and above it, but of it too.To love for what it is. How difficult is that? And yet, it’s the first and only task. Evade it, and you are lost. Lose yourself in it and you are free.