Carry yourself in. They’ll name you over and over, and make bridges from the ugliest parts of your body. Give them their content. They’ll mill over it when you die or maybe, cast it all into oblivion. Who were you born to be? A consolation for a mind. A problem. A question and a song. To be mad. Born to be mad. Born to be mad enough to think that something different could be. To be mad enough to know that being mad is exhausting. That madness is also a kind of exhaustion. Exhausted by what? Exhausted by a way of being. Exhausted by a way. Caught in the thought that this way isn’t the only way and that somehow other ways needed to be invented. We can invent another way. That somehow those other ways could be invented if only we agreed to think differently and accept the crushing reality of this ongoing failure. To look at the history. To read the history as a series of failures. To know history’s failure as the architecture of the present.
“Let us all make a toast to pessimism!”
“For what reason should we make a toast to pessimism?”
“Pessimism makes a toast to history as a series of failures.”
Carry yourself in and see. Underneath it all there is loss. Loss as beauty. Loss as disgrace. Loss as produce. Loss as World and Knowledge. Loss as ground and air and earth and disaster. Carry yourself in.
“What does it mean to not fail?
How does one succeed?
What is success in this struggle of ours?
What does it even mean?”
I want to see the world burn. I want to see utopia. I want to see abundant love. I want to see the end. I want to fight. I want to have peace. I am safe. I am scared. I want to see a day where it feels like we restarted again and the whole entire world forgot my name.
QUESTION: What should be done with the Big Bang?
The literal one, and the sociogenic one’s that become the grammar and ground for our names.
“You wanna know what your problem is? You carry a faith in a world that despises you. You still got love for a world that’s indifferent. You talk that radical shit, but you actually a MLK-type nigga at heart,” he said this with the kind of clarity that only the wretched do.
“I’m just waiting for the world to end,” I said.
“And then what?” He chuckled. “Ya’know for all that reading you do it’s almost like you don’t know nothing at all. You think your end of the world was the only one there ever was? Look around you boy! Death is the God of the Earth. Everything to God is sacrifice.”
“All this shit is religious.”
“My religion is reality.”
Carry yourself in. I found measures of perfection in a minor key. Who are you to bring together the world? To make the world better. What is better? Is there better? Does better occur? How to make better occur? I’ve heard the fighter’s yell, “Something!” The fighters all tell me something. Since something’s better than nothing and nothing is only better than nothing. I didn’t play the philosophical game. The one where I mention that nothing isn’t even nothing and that something is something we’re always doing. I played along. In fact, I transitioned. I became something … better. May I name me better? May I name me? When you change, some of your peers will call you a traitor. I changed. They didn’t name me better. They named me change. Is there a name for change and better? Some call it transformation. I like the sound of it, but what of it? What is it? And is it any different than the rest of the theoretical pipe dreams we create? Isn’t transformation, just another way to say change, and change, a theoretical pipe dream? Where does transformation come from? Where did transformation go? Is there a better name for transformation?
“I’se sure as hell as hope so. I’se sure as hell hope we find it. Lawd knows I’ve been looking for it. High and low. Inside and out. So help me Gawd. I ain’t perfect and I ain’t excusin’. But I’sa tryin Gawd. I’sa tryin’.”
How many of us are trying? I heard from someone smart that if it doesn’t hurt than you ain’t working hard enough and to be honest, I’m still trying to figure out why. And I don’t mean why in the whiny, “this shouldn’t be hard” kind of way, but why in the “why is life designed this way” kind of way? Why is life designed through difficulty? Why is life designed through strife? And could we design it differently? Could we design it better?
I know I’m not the man for the job. I got my own shit to figure out. My own sins to carry. My own cross to bear. My own annihilation to plan. My own future to ruin. My own past to regret. My own paranoia to subdue. Purity runs from my blood like a serpent from sunlight.
“You have a moral compass. Live off that moral compass and let your spirit be your guide. Always remember that knowledge can never hurt you. Always remember that hurt is going to hurt you, but life is going to go on.”
Hate yourself because you are yourself and write the same passages you crave. It’s ironic how you’re the kind of person you needed your whole life. Yet, you crush yourself under the weight of your own self-loathing. Always finding new ways to despise you. Why were you born this way? Are you touching the world or fucking it up? And which option’s up and which is down? It was one of the most difficult parts about living and dying in the 21st Century, nothing made sense anymore. But, nothing ever did.
“Who are you to try to make a difference?”
“Oh me? Oh, I’m no one. I’m absolutely no one at all.”
growing everyday.
taking things slow.
lessons of life abounding.
what more is left to do but everything?
what more is left to do but all?
to make a difference that makes a difference
to make a difference that un/re/makes difference
to unmake a difference that remakes everything.
Mumble Theory 