Scrame

This might be the fifth attempt. I lost count after the first, it all runs together anyway.

Its an uncomfortable heat, the kind that is too much for your seasonal clothes, but not enough to ditch work and lie in front of a fan instead, silting into the furniture.

The weather can be cloistering, but its hard to find what you want when you are too worried about what to wear, what to think, how to stand out the right way so no one notices. There are us just sitting on the podium, working to ward away the best of intentions that keep stomping past. There are giants above and midgets below, no perspective to sort out if you’re a lowlife or a god, or maybe its all just one and the same.

The walls bend, of course, you might actually be a giant to the ones that tower on you, but its not necessarily true, people still have an affinity to what they look for, or how they try to look away. This is not any kind of destiny, though, this is not even a simple word. That the dialogue doesn’t exist is hardly the case, there is nothing more abstract than a wall of text that doesn’t deserve to be read, let alone it occupying some collective head snot that floats around the world.

Whats more explicit than that? Whats more necessary than the aberrant behavior that drives so many of us to a pointless, decayed edge, to push to preserve our bodies and minds on the top of a pyramid of someone else’s expectations.

Expectations that don’t exist, just the diseased actuarial droppings of people whore’d into a special lifestyle of just calculating the worth of lives of the people around them. themselves. there is no escaping statistics, yet they are all patently false. Why shouldn’t we just buy into what it could be while ignoring the truth or reality of whatever the situation is.

More importantly, there is no way to stand apart from the other mountains of statistics, you could isolate yourself with power and wealth if you are one of the few that have that.

This might be the sixth attempt, then. It seems pointless to even want to start over again, when I don’t even care, words can just appear, but it could just be written by a search engine, much like most of the movies we see.

Or does that only make it four? How many movies have you seen? Products consumed? Depressed third-world orphan lives have you lead? How hungry have you been? Whats the closest you ever came to dying? Pointless questions that live in the minds the leisure class who want to know what other people think about vague questions rather than a decisive answer. There aren’t any, of course, someone is always younger, richer, smarter and better looking than you, this was true the minute you were born and will be true till you die. Of course these are all somehow subjective (except younger, but we need that as a species so much our own self-centeredness can’t work through it, or around it.

Back down to three now. This is my third attempt on this attempt to whittle down the time wasted, or missed opportunities, by doing effectively the same thing. Its possible that a famine will come. Its possible war will come. Its possible the end will come. Its possible that all of that is waiting for the day you die, or the one after that, yet we can all be preoccupied by that. By your past, by bad decisions, by mental illness. A man could frill his whole life away masturbating and be considered a waste but still have a happier life than a yogi born in a pit of snakes.

And it was actually my second attempt, this time, in this faux-notepad window, the first time I wrote the opening line it said sixth. The numbers don’t matter, discrete steps are harder to find in life than our categorical, square roomed mind can comprehend, the best we can do is shoehorn our own existance into little rectangular boxes, measured by time and the sagging of our own asses and diminished acceptance of the daily grind that we all worked so hard to earn: the protection that we can just keep showing up and doing the same thing and not try to think about the end of it, when the cash dries up, when the pink slip comes, when the dog is on the table instead of at your feet.

Maybe its better that way. Maybe its easier if we kill ourselves by ignoring what is happnening to us, and just continuing to push harder and faster for the pointless boredom that we accept from other people.

Is there an alternative? The checks stop coming, certainly, there is less that you can do when you’re older and have shluffed off any willingness to come into accepting the slow, inevitable pointless slurry.

And its definitely not the first time for any of that.