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Sunday, December 1, 2013

spasmatic shadow (a wordy exposé)

I finish Chapter 35 of Kerouac's 'Big Sur' as things begin to heat to a shatter and decide I've got something to write about as well.. picking laptop off of the carpet still-buzzing in a never-sleep mode sipping chardonnay from a floral mug, having just finished a hearty supper of spaghetti with meat sauce prepared by my roommate, Isaac, upon my unmade bed between completed chapters-- as Kerouac shivers through his alcoholically delirious existential crisis of slow suicide I have the appearance of memories in my head and parallel universes where things have happened differently, and perhaps I wouldn't be so strangely lost and redeemed on an almost daily basis yet it's alright as long as I know it's alright, all of this being confirmed for me during a beautiful trip on mushrooms the night prior in which I could not help but be socially anxious in the presence of others-- unable to complete full sentences-- but this did not rob the trip of beauty despite..

and I imagine a world in which Anya and I had never parted ways so violently.. or rather, at all.. as I eat my spaghetti and remember the slow summer days we spent together in bed for hours, naked, speaking of whatever and nodding off to nothing until finally I would lurch upward and begin working on a brand new hip-hop track for the dirty of the panic attack mixtape vol. 1 in the nude and in her presence in her dreams.. in this parallel universe I imagine we are naked in my unmade bed this very evening until Isaac knocks to tell us the spaghetti is ready so we leisurely dress and silently slip into the kitchen to make a plate, return to my bedroom and perhaps undress again, eat the spaghetti and comment to each other how delicious it is and how good of a job Isaac has done in preparation.. eventually she dresses to use the washroom and grabs our dirty plates as she does, peaking through Isaac's open bedroom door to state a sincere thanks, to which he sheepishly yet appreciately replies, "oh.. oh, not a problem." 

Instead, I, high as a kite as a God as a star as a lover, text her at 3 in the morning amidst a cuddle of 5 fellow friends and shroomdoers all fast asleep to state that the trip reminded me of when we were at a festival in July and I, high on acid, began to freak out from the endless cocaine thump of terrible music in the distance (brainzapbrainzapbrainzap) and she simply held me all night whispering 'IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou' under her breath to such a silent extent that I had to later ask whether I hallucinated it or not (to which I didn't) and that it reminded me that I am still in love with her despite everything and that I will always love her and that I'm so deeply thankful that she is still in my life..  she still talks to me the following morning via facebook but avoids speaking of the text, never responds to the texts.. perhaps a strategem of hers in which she looks on me with pity as still being stuck on the end, and wishes to be the all-benevolent Saint of What Has Come to Pass by 'wisely' denying the sincere gesture even so much as acknowledgement.. or, perhaps she is still just as in love with me but knows it would lead nowhere healthy (at least not now) and as such keeps quiet keeps quiet keeps quiet for her sake.. our sake.. who knows.

She's got some other lover or as such something now whereas I just don't know so I avoid the question incidentally leading a couple girls on and not meaning to goddamnit I really was sorry for that but narcissistically pleased in a way.. maybe I'm as low as I imagine, and it's only on drugs that I realize "THERE ARE ACTUALLY PEOPLE WHO LIKE YOU, IDIOT, NOT EVERY GIRL TRIES TO FRIENDZONE AND DO YOU EVEN NOTICE WHEN YOU FRIENDZONE ANYMORE OR DO U JUST LET IT GO TO YOUR HEAD LIKE 'AHH, LOOK AT ME, I HAVE THE POWER TO FRIENDZONE, MEANS I'M IN THE RIGHT HAHA, FAAAANTASTIC'.. do you even FUCKING NOTICE when a girl actually LOOKS AT YOU LONGINGLY ANYMORE? or do you ALWAYS JUST IMAGINE they're just TRYING TO BE NICE cuz you're some WEIRD WANNABE FILLING YOUR VOID WITH ATTEMPTS TO SPREAD YOURSELF LIKE DENSE BUTTER on a CRUSTY, COLD PANCAKE?"

and it probably all boils down to my assumption that I am ugly and who can love my tired weather-beaten face when I haven't slept, because I can't, fuckit.. I try to fill my perceptive void lack-attraction with another kind of beauty I can love, arsty farsty summer craft poems and exposé rivers like this one I ride in a white-water raft to feel the turbulence of my soul and hope just hope I won't tip over and crack my skull.. 

oh, there's the shore.

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The world is meaningless,

there is no God or gods, there are no morals, the universe is not moving inexorably towards any higher purpose.
All meaning is man-made, so make your own, and make it well.
Do not treat life as a way to pass the time until you die.
Do not try to "find yourself", you must make yourself.
Choose what you want to find meaningful and live, create, love, hate, cry, destroy, fight and die for it.
Do not let your life and your values and your actions slip easily into any mold, other that that which you create for yourself, and say with conviction, "This is who I make myself".
Do not give in to hope.
Remember that nothing you do has any significance beyond that with which you imbue it.
Whatever you do, do it for its own sake.
When the universe looks on with indifference, laugh, and shout back, "Fuck You!".
Rembember that to fight meaninglessness is futile, but fight anyway, in spite of and because of its futility.
The world may be empty of meaning, but it is a blank canvas on which to paint meanings of your own.
Live deliberately. You are free.