The realization that nothing matters, that all is in vain, is inconsequential insofar as it changes nothing. We remain living the same lives as before, if not for the exception of a newly-acquired taste for sadism that enjoys seeing everything annihilate itself.
The spider in my room continues to spin its web with precision, a meticulous mandala that is not a form of ephemeral art, but simply a skill in survival, which is in itself a form of ephemeral art.
I’ve noticed that humanity has an innate insensitivity to oblivion. It builds and labors as if there will always be human beings around to witness their own struggles and achievements. Their seriousness is a form of naïveté. No one epitomizes this naïveté better than the writer.
We can never be sure an animal acts in seriousness. It can be ferocious, alert, aggressive, intent, perseverant and devotional, but its ability to shift from intense concentration to laziness suggests that it does not really care for the outcome of its actions.
It feels me with horror and rage to hear people claim that life is profound and inexhaustible while they spend half their lives in front of a computer pretending to live life to its full potential.
If the world is unreal and the self is an illusion gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm. On the other hand, if the world is real and the self exists, gulping down a flask of whiskey at noon on a Tuesday wouldn’t do any harm.
azure tear of honey
illusion final and deathly
broken ache of eternal fragment
mind hidden as noise – butter twilight
brick dishonestly masking the painful
I glimpse and all else is rain and light
sometimes pause, the dark name of time
find me aging in the salt of the vein
thirsty with the mountainous experience
of sex and surface, the glass of self vs. ideal
contact or the collapse of the soft spots of obelisks
dents of fossils because the mother cries of purpose
skeleton breasts and her milk of the loving ineffability
the drug of understanding, my knowledge of futility
your awry focus on the skin, the nostalgia of eye
love in the bite of flesh and smell of age
more is forthcoming involuntarily
by an intelligence of blindness
the sky and its language
in your mouth
That I must use language to describe an unusual event which was anything but words makes my task already futile but I will communicate the strange braid of emotion, perception and thought that made that moment possible as I was standing at the end of a sidewalk a piece of, what it seemed like, a poster was stuck to the ground and an outreaching extremity hanged over the miniature precipice between the sidewalk and the gutter this limb of paper this appendix of matter fluttered in the wind and I felt as if standing above a slice of eternal existence flapping under my very feet a small, oblique, strand of whatever moving in sequences that would make me believe in beauty.