This is going to end badly.
Here I am slouching through middle-age; sexually I am hors de combat, as if by some secret but final decree. I lament it but the sentence is just--and just as well (I wouldn't join any club that'd have me for a member, and I wouldn't conjoin with anyone who'd have my member); I haven't earned any better.
It's time for a hobby, perhaps. But what the hell is a hobby? A man does a thing, or he doesn't. Me, I don't do anything.
I cannot help but see the futility in all forms of action. There is nothing I feel is better done than not done; all is a wash. The moment I take up a thing is the moment I lose interest in it. I am losing my ability to distinguish worth; everything is blending together in an unindividuated mass. Society is a great burlesque; garish, farcical, and in bad taste. Beneath "reality" some equilibrium sustains itself as sure as water finding its level, and humanity is but fodder; we are the inactive ingredient. Now don't start on me. One doesn't choose to believe such things; such things choose him. I'm not a cheerless man, and I don't envy your engagement with humanity.
I find organizations inherently sinister. I despise collective action. Concern sickens me. All men are foreigners to me, speaking nonsense. I am nauseated by the pace of time--I have temporal motion sickness. The less of it that remains the more mysterious it is. Its passage, the grinding, erosive consistency of it, is beyond my capabilities of understanding. Thus my default position--petrified immobility.
It's a congenital condition; you should see the rest of the family. Our indolence is sinful. How the hell this desultory line propagated is a mystery. We are a living refutation of evolution--and God. No logic or divinity could produce this. My family's existence is a profanation. My existence, in a world of heroism and suffering, is an obscenity. Yet we endure. Yet here I am. Still standing and pointlessly defiant. And there you are.
Nonetheless I keep an eye on the horizon for something I don't expect and wouldn't recognize; I am open to the prospect of meaning. Still, it cannot change a thing, because whatever comes:
This is going to end badly.
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Sanity Fair
"Antifascist" demonstration Portland, Oregon. August 17, 2019. The two sides squared off across a field, defined by police cord...
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Another six hours monitoring livestreams last night. Courtesy of: AustinZone LiveNow Media JacobSnakeUp
7 comments:
some of this could function as a lyrical explanation for why i'm comfortable being a savage, unapologetic, aggressively malfunctioning asshole.
Are not. You are concerned and engaged and care for your fellow man.
"Security!"
Bowling!
Unless it doesn't end at all. Ever think of that, slouch?
Life is going to end badly, for each of us. Of the beyond, it is vanity to feign certainty. My particular vanity is to feign nonchalance. But I hold out hope, like every one else, because there is nothing else for it. I repeat myself: immortality is no less plausible than mortality.
Take heart in knowing that the mindless troglodytes never deal with this conundrum. It also afflicts men with great certainty of their purpose in life. You'll either find your path or trail blaze a new one.
Being is enough. If one can create some meaning, however transitory, then one has beaten the void.
In my brief foray into this blog, I will say I am quite impressed with your ability to give voice to some ideas that can be uniquely difficult to express. Thank you.
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