Sunday, January 3, 2016

in defense of industriousness.

who is industrious? hi; as long as i work i'll be all right- because all we've got going for us is work, and bums, but i don't want to be no bum. i was born working hard- to the extent, in fact, that as soon as i was born, i wanted to grow up to lead a transgressive life somehow; a transgressive world of my own construction. nihilists don't mind believing in life. it's reality that they aren't baptized to. i know it's supposed to be a condition and i know that's supposed to be really sad, but i really want to be a nihilist. i want to lose my sense of inhibition, is the thing. i'm not into the same shit other people are. i want change. there's more that can be done with this.
(i have my hard work to defend). i have my defenses to exhaust.

because i was very unhappy with doing stuff i didn't want to do, i crept away into a comatose state. i was the prettiest comatose body around, wearing a crown...a pink dress, too. little cannibals from far away islands cried over my body, which, over time, had busted out of my pink dress. i was beautiful- too beautiful to eat alive, and too beautiful to destroy.
i didn't leave the hospital closest to my families house, in which this happened, with the cannibals and the comatose state and the dress, until two decades later.
by then, i was a beautiful young lady.
because i wasn't into it- if being a beautiful young lady states something, i don't know what- i shaved my head. i shaved my eyebrows. i did not shave my body hair elsewhere.

i was unwilling to learn to live with that unconscious leaning of mine for the rest of my life. it seemed as if it was asking too much. i grew to believe that the only way to live without it was to break everything; to break out of the acknowledged. to go further. however, i still didn't know how to live without my... my depression.
i felt like a collapsed star in the universe although i saw that in everything else just as well; i saw blankness; dead fucking gravity. all i knew was i was disappointed in myself for not matching up with my ideals. (it wouldn't be a big deal if i wasn't so fucking slowed by time and petrifying away.)

today, i've been on all the talk shows. i'm past all the raggedy old robes i used to be into. if i can beat depression, just cut the shit, anyone can; or- i can do anything. so i do.
but without depression being completely there i feel a little lost; a little like i don't know how to tie my shoes. a little too late.

so i feel like walking a little. before, i walked on the other side of the main road, where the trees are. i breathed easily. i felt that i...i could cry. i'd felt the sensation rise behind my eyes then jerk away.

a little uncomfortable walking alongside the woods, because of what i believe, i.e., the woods are going to rape me, and i'm going to be unhappy with how i handle myself, i walked alongside the road to paradise.
it's nearby. it's where you're lead to believe beautiful things, depending on how you constitute beauty, in order to wake up behind a dumpster missing a few organs without recollection of the night before.

listen up: i don't like sharing my shit. it won't be believed in the same way i believe in it. i especially don't want to share a deity. i need to be my own deity, perhaps. maybe even recruit followers. drag them along the road to paradise.

perhaps a dream, can't tell:

i am the leader of a revolution, a revolution unlike any other- a revolution that prevents a reformation afterward. it is direct, loud and clear- and i hardly had to push myself and my agenda at all.
the people i lead are slaves. where is the legacy i'm to live off of without them?

i've become a bit of a statue, immortalized as far as mankind is concerned. only twenty something and as old as siddhartha gautama and other family men. my statue-self is protected from all of the elements. it will never break.

the first thing i did to prepare for pushing my way was rearrange my priorities. i looked up to myself. i looked myself up. i myself looked up.

this was the start of an orgasm. (quiet, please.) i stretched my arms across the clouds. it is said they point in opposing directions.

if there is a new plague it's all in my head as in apocryphal. it's time to address hope.

i yearn. you know how i'd like for my body to touch your body. you know how i'd like to engulf you, powerful man. ability to think. ability to move around. here i am, naked before you, and all you do is say that "we need time before going there". i bow before you and inside i know you think i'm ugly. otherwise, you'd fuck me.

i don't admit on the loudspeakers (the phones, the things in the phones) that i have sex to sell. but underneath the cities, i sell it. i use it to collect experiences.

the whole country is abusing the shit out of me just as well as you. you're not alone in this as much as you wish you were in order to feel special about yourself. the whole country tells us crying is cowardly when, in fact, that is blatant pseudoscience. crying is a release of toxins. it is courageous. people who never cry hate themselves because they're filled with noxious chemicals. they're afraid to be brave. they're afraid to transgress.

the past few weeks i have been trying to masturbate myself to sleep. (make me love the working class.) some kind of willful attempt at happiness, at having sex with myself like how it goes in porn. determine this country i've sailed to, i've seen, i've yet to fathom in an intimate way. one that pushes itself to me, that i push myself right back to. friction is incredible, delicate and firm. difficult to keep up with; to go anywhere with.

in my fantasy tonight, the people are no longer picking cotton. not here. is that what they believe is the emblem for slavery? i don't think it's ephemeral.
because look around ourselves- i ask you to open your mind to this. i don't know who we're serving other than this vague construct of "rich people", and i don't know how to get away from doing so...i'd probably still feel constricted and confined anyway. in the meantime, we're all slaves, or, we're all ashamed of ourselves. we're dead; forced to our graves in life.

fantasy that leads to a nice dream:
if there is someone who hasn't yet died- you know, from the plague- he is dignified and standing upright. he refuses to eat the sharp and bitter stuff everyone else is force-fed. he pockets it. he does not react to his disgust.

initial discussion leads immediately to marriage/kids/divorce:
his deep dark secret is not that his mother touched him as a child- he is quite open about that. what it is is that he want his mommy now. here comes mommy- look, look! there she goes. went.
"come into my similarly mommy-wanting arms. please, fool yourself into believing you're complete because i have traits that you want to see in yourself. they think because we all project ourselves onto everything we see, that that makes it okay for them to go after my characteristics for themselves. greedy motherfuckers. my spine is nice, you say- it's sleek. when spring comes, you can count on me- my brain is the home to flowers.

i think i need to learn how to meet guys differently.

you are forever with sin if you are without constant meditation.

at least pretend to try, goddammit.

stuff i believe in right now:
i believe in the importance of saying what i want. i believe in the danger of everything, not excluding repercussions. i also believe we are currently surviving a cultural depression. eventually it'll turn into some other kind of cultural depression. this is a very sad part of the world we take place in.
i feel embarrassed representing it- the cultural depression, as well as this part of the world. sometimes i scream out of frustration from the advertisements i'm subjected to. however, i find there's something depressing about culture to begin with. something very depressing, old, archaic methods and schools of thought ruling over all, depriving us. being in the way of our truth.
we lose attraction to our own thought. we become repulsed by it.
we are resentful about our ties to being animals. only sex and shitting are permitted, it was said to me. i said that all passive aggressive behavior is our nervousness over being animals. and everyone has a passive aggressive moment now and then, refusing to connect with others over them.

the school of reasoning was invented during a shitty time. we don't need reasons for anything we do.

i am going to shut down this industrialized, oil-seeking agenda of the vague construct of the government- my feet are stuck to the floor in oil, and it's a hot day. what's going to happen is i'm going to be the unlikely hero from a book. this seems to be the only way people can find a way out- and to find a way out, you have to save the rest of us, so it seems.
it's nice of my mind to romanticize bullshit, but i need to move past this. because it's not leading me to make any moves, and i feel totally guilty and embarrassed by having something to do with heroism anyway. any association with an "-ism", to me, is very embarrassing.

eternally hunting we seek mirages. our relationships with the spiritual are always troubled. against my memories will, a mountain spoke. it asked me to help it grow- to feed it with water, soil, and some sunlight. it didn't ask for anything unreasonable as unreasonable as it seems. now, it continues to exist- but it's in better shape now. it's not a gore movie playing in the back of my head, poking me throughout the day. i remember a little:

hi; when i was born, i played with a menagerie of funny animals. i was the human that learned from them. i told them nothing was going to ever happen between us- nothing destructive. of course, they feel betrayed now. i don't know where any of them went, but they left the scene a long time ago. they had mistook me for a saint. i had told them a saint i am.
but i stopped caring.
i had rid my body, at the end of the day, of what i knew it did not need. it did not need anyone- just its own particular functioning.
it didn't take long before i decided what i wanted it to do, why it was going to function. i wasn't going to lay in bed with depression until i was to die. i was going to do what i wanted and learn from it, because everything is a teacher. and i'm tired of hearing the things we want to do cannot teach us, or that they are no good.

in this country, i've lost many people (they died)- they lost themselves, they wanted privacy, but it didn't exist anymore or it wasn't allowed anymore. they didn't find anything you have to spend money on worthwhile, so they stopped spending money and therefore died that way, as well. blood collapsed, descended, spread. poppies grew from the puddles that seeped into the earth. the earth was no longer frozen; it was ready to turn red.
the only person i know to have lived is on the run. most people don't even know she exists. she is the fugitive, the sole fugitive -the one without a ball and chain. she walks toward the east, toward the sunrise. i watch her cross the street, dignified and willowy, to the woods she must enter and eventually leave in order to continue heading eastward. to continue departing.
the name of the woods were "rapey woods". my eyebrows furrowed with concern.

don't stop trudging, the trees rustled to her. you're making me come.
i knew- perhaps, it was a hope at most- that she was to survive, unscathed. but i knew she'd do it better than me. and i knew that a part of her would tell me, perhaps because i seem ascetic next to her, not broken of innocence, ready for a wedding gown, "you wouldn't last a week."

now i eat nothing but crack. i mean, except when i'm out of it...then is when i eat glue. it pours onto my tongue. precious resources have fought their way into my body. because i'm my own slave and master relationship, there's no escaping this wall i'm chained to unless the wall happens to collapse- under which i would break its fall.

even though i love driving, oil disgusts me. but, like i said, precious resources have fought their way into my body; my heart. they've sold themselves with money. (what is it good for?) more glue and more crack.