X: “Get real man, I’m not giving you money! I’m saying you need therapy.”
Y: “Well, how could I get that if I have no money for it? And also, you know, I got real world problems, your disgust with me is not one of them. I’ve gone before, therapists are not going to fix the horrors of life, they might help to provide the necessary sophistry to cope better with those horrors or at least to more or less shut them out with mantras and pills, but in the end, through the thick of the artificial smog, it’s still just you and yourself stuck dealing with the insufferable fact of your finite existence, everyday strife, and the inescapable hell that is consistently other people.”
X: “Come on, you need to let in the light, man. You’re disturbed, clearly. You’ve been shutting out the world and your emotions and you’ve just become a bitter schlub about it all. It’s in your head, it’s nonsense, seriously, there is joy out there, there’s no sense in being a sad lump, you’re too young for that. And you know what? Most of all I think you’re just afraid, no one has shown you how to live, so you’re not dealing with it in a healthy way, you need a job, you need people, you need something to live for, and so far it doesn’t look like you’ve found that for yourself. So yes, yeah I’m saying get help, because you need help. And.. and you need to just keep trying ‘til it gets better man, what can I tell you, it’s an attitude thing. Come on, I promise you, it will get better, you just need to stay positive and keep trying.”
Y: “Yes sure, in a way it all goes back to fear, but listen, it’s not just me, there is a brokenness to this reality, and you, you’re just as fragile as me and almost certainly not as contorted. So, don’t tell me that I’m a frightened naïve underdeveloped little shit, when your terrors and shames are not only just as skin deep as mine, but that on top of all that, behind that cheap veneer of gooey mantras, progress, and positivity you’re hiding behind, you also properly lack the means to transpose the brokenness, because you yourself have been denied, frightened, been looking away or otherwise working it away ever since, and, for so long too, that the mere suggestion of bringing it out, in the open, might just end you. Yes, I am afraid, but at least in my divided way of dealing with it, I have not forsaken reality, I’ve forsaken myself and our humanity, the being of a somebody and the “grand role” everyone said we’d play in it all. And yeah, you know, sure, ok, every virtue is after all just another bias, but that said, wanting truth is not a bad bias to have. Because.. because, if it kills you then you no longer have to suffer, and.. but, but if it doesn’t, then well, hey then you can suffer with the upright swagger of knowing instead of limping most sorrily with the most egregiously idiotic and dishonest prepaid and pay-later ways of living. Besides, no one in their right mind, if they knew it’d would be like this, that life would be like this, would ever choose to live it all over again. So, if you want proof, there it is. And, on top even of that.. go and read what all the religions say, read them, because they’re pessimistic as all hell, they give up on life, on reality, and cover it all up with punishments, the smiles of displacements and relinquishment, and various ways of also, like me, denying themselves and breaking themselves up into pieces that are on the whole capable of functioning as long as they don’t come together. If I am mad, then it is only because the world is, and being human, because people are.”
~
X: “Go fuck yourself!”
Y: “Today and every other day baby, thanks for the encouragement.”
~
no thx:
The smoothness of a truth so prickly,
and the roughity of a lie so smooth.
Hearts grow more aloof as another
masked pariah caws on the roof,
calling customers for his
salves and balms, which
are like every messiah,
just one more spoof.
Thus the beauty of the
eternal no, which costs
nothing and needs
no proof.
~
Never been drunk or high, is this failure?
~
Then there’s people who’ve spent years living in a room or apartment on some floor of a tall building without ever going down to the ground, just watching the whole world pass them by. Eh, but at least they have a view, that could be enough.
~
Not Your Toy:
Linearization and commodification,
pushed into lines, where deviances cost fines,
where sorrows are boxed up with bows,
labeled pretty for tomorrows, where
they are sold in rows next to others
on a rack, in a competition of feeling,
an attack on expression, a division of words,
a revision of being, and the suppression of seeing.
Because who hurts the prettiest wins.
How do you win when your soul is the commodity?
When it doesn’t scale up to the tastes or ideology. When it doesn’t sell well in this particular hell?
When their words burn ugly like a curse, and,
it feels like they might as well call a hearse.
When who feels the least and practices the
most, boasts of things unshared, the
mere prettiest toast, the meaningless,
roast, entangled in empty words
gelling just well enough to sell,
with hollows signs
trapped in bounded lines
where there is nothing there?
And but what of the souls who
feel everything but command
no slurries of golden words,
or those who write for
themselves,
not for the herds,
in lived worlds where they’ve
no use, but to endure
drudgery and corporate
abuse?
~
And you know, the reason YOUR voice is probably not being heard is likely because you’re either talking nonsense, or no one really cares because it’s not important, at least not to them or the continuation of life or anything really. No one is obliged to care, you can’t force it. But even with that being so, still, not that many people’s voices are actively being suppressed to the point of a silence so bad that nothing can be done. Feeling is one thing, but truth is just another technology, if it exists and you have it and it looks like it performs somewhat, then everyone [to whom it means something] is on it like flies to shit, it’s not something you can hide forever (unless you burn it and/or live as a recluse sharing nothing with no one). The other thing is that while it’s possible to get a message out there from almost anywhere, with the interwebs and what not, you cannot expect your name to fly with it like metadata, you’ll have to accept that information wants to be free and that no one truly owns it. But if there is a real problem then it’s probably market blindness, in the sense that there’s not much exposure on things that aren’t overly popular or which is just too obscure to properly warrant a spot in the top rack, and not instead to be hidden somewhere in the back. Which is why internet places like reddit are so awesome, because there’s a separate rack for almost every thought, fetish, fascination, or cause, and if there’s not then you can make one.
~
Little Messes:
Bereft altogether of a beauty and skill,
there are lines and squiggles here
carved into my page.
A page which like every other, is called
an embarrassment in the making.
Useless. They say it’s time, the secret ingredient
in every recipe, but I’ve clearly not had enough.
Then again when it calls for me,
I have only my sweet nothings to say.
Three embarrassments today, perhaps
another tomorrow. They are enough.
What could I want?
What more do you want?
~
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than
are dreamt of in your philosophy.” — from Shakespeare’s Hamlet
Yes, but dammit, at least I have a philosophy!
~
“Huh?”, a Poem:
What did I want?
Can’t even remember.
Oh well.
~
One must crush the potato chips and put them on buttered bread with a sauce; it is how it is done — a temporary cure for despair, one of many.
~
One more pointless 2am commit on a project of two years that means nothing to nobody.
~
* Just say YES and it all goes away. *
B: * trying to share something interesting and personally meaningful *
K: * preoccupied, not interested, and probably slightly irritated * “Yes.. mm-hmm.. oh. yeah? … yeah. Hmm.. huh. uh-huh.. ok.. sure.”
~
Home in a Headphone:
For a little while, allow me please to lose myself,
to pack my mind onto a shelf, for a little while to
just not be here, where it feels my body has
dwelled forever. A world measured in meters,
countries the size of rooms, a town the size of
a bed, a house inside my head. Headphones,
a gift of flight, to take me somewhere far away
from this endless blight, a place to park my
soul in many a late sleepless night.
~
Memory of A: “Why this fixation with AI, robot overlords and the end of humanity?”
B: “It’s hope, forgive me.”
~
X: “STOP telling me all these horrible things!”
Y: “STOP pretending they don’t exist!”
~
Instead of coding up a pile of junk each year around exam times when the pressure of procrastination forces me into every kind of proficiency except studying, then, when the pressure is off the abandoning and psychic recession comes swiftly thereafter, yes instead of all that, I’ve decided writing fragments is a much better alternative, because incomplete personal code projects are useless and nobody is going to pick up your slack with them. But a fragment, ooh, a fragment, yes, I can muster a fragment every now and again, and anyone who would read my nonsense can probably find a chuckle or a scoff to throw this way, which is good, because it means I’ve managed to be more than a lump, that even in my uselessness I’ve managed to get one little meaningless thing right.
~
Nestled In:
Feeling finitude swirl up in green colors, insides a yellow haze.
That tree looks prehistoric, wonder what that’s like.
Sky is white serene, cool mist. err is not nil.
1800’s was such a long time ago. This video.
This thread. What’s that. Spelling error.
Why does nobody like this song.
..t.i.m.e..
Am I wrong?
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
The Weather is fine. No they’re alright and so am I.
Moving on, moving in. clocking out the new shift begins.
No matter your words, no matter my thoughts.
They never wander far from being distraught.
Best tidy up now, it’s gettin late.
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
You staring this way with that awful glare.
Do I upset you? Yes, it’s a foul thing.
Properly uncivilized. Nowhere to go.
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
Pack it up now, your going.
Pack it, you’re going! I’m leaving.
leaving? leaving. leaving?
going. Shhh, he’s talking.
But I’m going.
Shhh.
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
Did you see what he did? .No.
Oh you just missed it. Never mind.
..t.i.m.e….t.i.m.e..
Did you hear what she said. .No.
Haha it was so funny. .Yes.
..t.i.m.e….t.i.m.e..
.Yes. No. No. Yes. Oh.
No. Oh no. Huh. Yes. Hmmm.
Yes. No. Sorry. Sorry.
No. Sorry. OK. No.
Yeah. Haha.
Thanks.
..t.i.m.e..
..t.i.m.e..
it doesn’t matter. They’re acting.
it doesn’t matter. I’m acting.
it doesn’t matter. We pretend.
it doesn’t matter. It’s the end.
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Morsels for the Depressed, Depraved, Pessimistic, and Otherwise Declining Page 15