The green stench lingered about me and harbored with it memories of just a few hours earlier. Memories of a time where thoughts seemed to permeate the air around me, serving no purpose but to distract from the menial task at hand. I wasn’t particularly good at pushing a lawn mower back and forth, but than again, who is? I’d like to say the thoughts and ideas that occur to me while mowing are sweeping epiphanies, or philosophical in nature, and sometimes they are, but to be honest they are just as often about what i’m going to have for lunch, or which videogame i’ll play when i get home. It’s sometimes quite a pain to be constantly aware of your own stupidity. To regularly and habitually observe your own behavior and observe it as that of an idiot. Still though, sometimes, amidst all of this cognitive turmoil, something happens that puts it all to rest. It’s not always the same thing, but it’s always something subtle. Something you’d barely notice if you were caught up in a web of inconsequential gobblygook that so often spills from the mouths of self important primates. Sometimes it’s the way a pillbug plays dead to let a passing ant climb over top of him. Sometimes it’s what a tree’s leaves look like when the wind pushes it’s way through them. Sometimes it’s watching two people who aren’t aware of you have a muted conversation a distance away from you. Little things that happen, which have both the capacity to bore, and to enthrall, to be dismissed, or to be obsessed over. To be ignored, or to inspire. This is the stuff of beauty, and this is the stuff i stick around for. As much as my fellow primates wish for me to beat upon the drum of progress and to immerse my self in all manner of gobblygook, i think i am just as content to watch ants climb over pillbugs who play dead.
If your thought does not fit within the confines of a character limit, to feel disappointed is to rebel against millions of years of a biological progress which has brought about your cognitive ascendance and superiority. To squander such an endowment on the trivial and the mundane, pragmatic affairs of your existence is to put to waste the only thing that differentiates you from a pig, or a dog. This is your life not because of some force or power unseen, but because you are a member of the only species able to determine it as such. As a creature of such an immense capacity to think, it should be considered your pleasurable obligation to not only use it to express your self to the furthest possible extent, but also to listen and experience the expression of others…. Or you could, you know, post about what you had for lunch today.
Everything keeps shrinking, turning stale and translucent. There is no horizon, only flat water.
The cuts on the wall were many, the cuts on the wall were deep. His malice poured into each one, let us hope they do not consume.
“I don’t really understand..”
“— we don’t understand that honey, only Jesus and God know that.”
“But why di..”
“— We just have to trust in Jesus because he knows everything.”
Blow my fucking brains out.
I couldn’t find you in that barren storm, I couldn’t find you. Like twigs beneath you are people crushed, those faces you saw but never knew. I can’t imagine how you feel, but sometimes I glimpse what you see. High above it all, you and I sit. We look down on them, but we can’t see their faces from here. It’s a necessary perch, no doubt, but is it solid? Won’t it come crumbling down? Won’t one of those faces pierce right through, and send us hurtling towards our limits? No, We can’t think of that now, we can’t consider ourselves in times so critical as these, times when we grasp at nothing. Those faces are ever-bold, they penetrate and perplex. Those faces are there for a reason, but it’s just beyond our comprehension. Let us open them up than, and take what we will. Let us drink of their spirit, than climb up their corpses. We are noble, we are genuine, we are free.
Such atrocities did he commit, all for the sake of his father’s approval. The screams of his victims fell on deaf ears as the immense sphere of destruction carved it’s path through such a placid land of casual frivolity. The mice were not quick enough to stop him. The cat’s claws were no match for his clever maneuvering. The dog’s teeth held no chance of snagging either him, or his ball of doom before it redoubled in size and absorbed them all with barely a yelp, meow, or squeak in protest. Even men and their bullets stood no chance against his iron will. He went right on rolling, gathering and combining, because that’s all he knew how to do. He’d bring them all together, he’d make them all one. There would be no more suffering, blame, or disappointment because they’d all be the same and together. The pain of individualism would be wiped away forever, and the stars would be that much brighter.
Yes, everyone sleeps at that hour, and this is reassuring, since the great longing of an unquiet heart is to posses constantly and consciously the loved one, or, failing in that, to be able to plunge the loved one, when time of absence intervenes, into a dreamless sleep timed to last unbroken until the day they meet… — Albert Camus - The Plague