Fucking just need to write,
and I wonder what those first five words will seem like when someone comes back to them in forty years and reads this.
Will they think I’m mad or happy or crazy or already lost it? I don’t know, can’t know, always I’m pretending to know.
And I want to catch the sounds that are flying around in my head, a butterfly or a flurry of butterflies, all of the thoughts that are somehow just bouncing and filling my mind with a powdery dust cloud of wicked words and ways to say things unsaid and thoughts and words unspoken.
No way any of this makes sense but I am tired of crying about life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness like it’s some disgusting unattainable monster, and I want to just grab the dust cloud and kiss it on its billowing mouth, take a huge bite out and let it settle to mud on my tongue. Like that’s not even good writing (and watch me criticise myself as I go, editing before anything comes out so that eventually nothing is said) and even if it were it wouldn’t make too much sense because the thoughts themselves are negative and heavy and feel like they’re pulling down my soul and I can’t take it anymore and I want to know what part of me is typing this and I feel like I lost someone a long time ago and he’s buried deep underneath all of those words and all of that dust and rubble. Like nine eleven came crashing down around him and he didn’t know, he had no idea what the fuck was happening, he was just five and washing his hands in a stainless steel, paint pocked sink, and he wanted to be somewhere else instead of inside during recess and he wanted to find his friend Kyle, I think, and they would be Pikachu and Charizard and fight with fistfuls of pebbles but he couldn’t that day, nope, because some guy had a plan to find God in the side of another countries’ building.
And I want to know why we hate each other so much, why we judge each other for our differences and then pretend like we don’t. Why I stopped asking certain people to spell their names for me when I’m working at Starbucks because I know I’ll never spell it right. And I know I’m racist for doing it and I hate myself for those things, and I want to know why the world is spinning and rocketing through space and I want to know why we can’t see that the planets and the solar systems and the whole expansive Universe doesn’t give a shit about our problems? And why don’t we give more of a damn about our earth’s problems? and why can’t I fly, because it would make life so much easier? And why do I block myself out of existing? And why do I talk myself out of being happy? And why do I think myself out of feeling included? And why do I think that millions of other people perpetuate that same mental pattern every day? And do millions of people perpetuate that same mental pattern every day? And why am I not writing a novel? And why can’t I focus for longer periods of time than I used to? And why do I take drugs to stay sane? And why do I take different drugs to go crazy? And why do I take any drugs at all? And what is in between the atoms around me? What is the blank space? And why does salt have to be in everything? And why is a process good when it’s for your mind but bad when it’s for your food? And why do I starve myself when I’m stressed but other people eat in order to feel happy? And why can’t I eat in order to feel happy? And why can’t I feed myself well? And why don’t I feed myself well even when I can? And why can’t I run fast anymore? And what about the endless worlds next to us? What about the multiverse? What about something holding all of these possibilities together? What about all of the “me’s” that can and do and could exist? And am I the worst one? Am I even close to the middle? Is there such thing as worse or better when existence is a spectrum stretching through infinite universes that can’t be compared no matter how hard we try? And what about planets far away, where there is someone or something feeling lonely? But they don’t have the technology necessary, just like we don’t, in order to see me? Do they write about me? What if they do? What if they write about themselves just like I am and mention me as a passing thought of wishful thinking just like I am mentioning them? And is there a soul? And if there is, where is it? And where does the line get drawn between a -one and a -thing? And why can’t I be happier than I am? And if there is a soul and we can or can’t find it, does that mean that God is real or does it just mean that I have a personality and god is nonexistent? And why do we push ourselves to believe in God or Gods or a deity of some kind?
And what about sunsets? What if we decided to start coloring them differently? And what is going to happen when everyone has augmented reality sunglasses and contacts and implants in their retinas? What will happen when there are no secrets? When we have recorded the whole of existence? What then will we conquer? What then will we derive our dissatisfaction from? When it is possible to live like anyone and be like everyone, how will we know what we are like? How will there be any sense of individuation? Will we be individuals anymore? Will we hate differently? Will money be the same? Will everyone die to the self? Will everyone just die? Will everyone’s sense of self slowly fade away and transform into some kind of collective hive mind consciousness? Will the world select us out slowly and quietly as natural and sexual selection takes place?
Why do we think that we are like wolves or lions when really we are more like bees and ants? What about the animals? Will they all die or will we push them to extinction? Will we just watch them through our recorded lenses? Make them behave perfectly because they do not really exist? Will we leave, feeling that we have conquered earth to its fullest extent? Will earth destroy us with massive storms and horrible floods? Will we run out of resources and leave the world a desolate wasteland? Will we have to recycle the dead to feed each other? Will some of us stay and work to fix things? What will happen then? Will we revert back to our nomadic form of life? What about all of the abandoned coffee shops and wall street and broken highways and empty movie theatres and unopened boxes of Twinkies? What about all the fake money? What about the false lives and credits that we’ve created and accrued? How will we know when we’ve pushed it too far? When it’s too late to abandon the lives that we are living? Is it already too late? How do we help to fix the deep problems that we have created?
So many questions.