Tiny Little Worlds
We're all going through identity crises, aren't we? Wondering how we fit into this cosmic mess of asteroids, black holes, and imagination. It's not an easy thing to do sometimes. Things get lonely. People quibble over inanities. Friends mutate into figments of your imagination. Family members too. Eventually, we come to realize that there is very little to hold on to, and certainly, we cannot be sure about much of anything, much less whether or not it's worth the trouble.
And so we formulate opinions, gather facts. The great, trembling hand of consciousness bestows upon us the rotten fruits of thought, and we fight or feel abandoned because we bought into foolish things like love or meaning. Answers. Clever quotations. Low-fat diets. We've been sold on all of it, all this illusionary garbage that has squeezed the tears out of us countless times over, leaving us dry and flammable--husks to be burned. Refuse to be discarded as soon as possible because it stinks of pretense and gin. A corpse bloated with beliefs and ideas and lame pop culture references that have replaced sincere modes of expression. All of this shit oozing from every bodily orifice, 24 hours a day. Seven days a week.
This should all be very obvious to anyone who has taken five minutes to sit on a park bench or in a bar and watch frenzied locusts battering each other with torn, wretched wings and engaging in good, old-fashioned cannibalism. Rolling the guts of their fellow simians. For we are cannibals, good children. We feed off of one another constantly as parasites do, and with a bit luck, we end up finding confluence with a series of people for varying periods of time. Two greedy vampires living in symbiosis, sucking the marrow from the other's bones. One organ. Or something like that.
We leave gutted shells in our wake. We do our mating dances not with the hope of giving, but with the expectation of taking and taking and gorging ourselves on the sweet meats provided by Brain Rape. Mammalian birth is nothing more than a ruse. It is a distraction from what we are really all about, which is nothing less sinister and disgusting than laying eggs in the skulls of our friends and foes hoping mutants hatch, hoping for contamination of the spirit and a perversion that allows us to exact power over our fellow humans. We give them our beliefs. We berate them for being dumb and witless, empty-headed jerk-offs with empty-headed obsessions, and it is a sickening sort of behavior and sadly endemic among people. What is more frightening is that we probably are junk reservoirs. Morons of the highest form doomed to wander aimlessly and die a slow, agonizing death unless one of two things happen: 1) you accept infinite fallibility, infinite meaninglessness, and inherent perversion; or 2) you ignore human in its entirely and give in to obsession with the acquisition of wealth, allowing that sole objective to govern your every involuntary twitch.
Try to do something good, and you will be shat upon. Acknowledge the truth, and you will have to keep your mouth shut every time you're told you are full of shit because it will be undeniably true no matter what. A genius and a dunce are almost exactly the same. The only difference is that a dunce latches on to other people's ideas and beliefs while a genius has the aptitude to create his/her own petty illusions and ingrain them so deeply as to forget the vicious, intrinsic lie altogether.
To think how many times we have forged God's name in the name of God.
But these are happy days, and these are sad days. All the hair-brained bastardizations I spewed in the preceding paragraphs cannot detract from the inexorable truth that the arc of human evolution is unalterable, and this should remove the burden of cosmic responsibility from our shoulders. We are on a track we neither understand nor control, and Mother Nature will have her way with us no matter what. We can't do much more than squeal and bitch about it. Write blogs about it. Kill people over it. Love people for it. Make our peace with it. Or shut the fuck up and forget about it.
Or at least I can't.