Selling Noise For Nothing
All the 40 hour weeks grinding down spirit for promissory notes stipend out so that we may "live" 52 days a year--Saturday (Saturn/Cronus) being, etymologically speaking, the mythical space for the "straining ones" who would overthrow the Father at the behest of the Mother (perhaps a bastardize interpretation, but so be it). My brethren scattered in the seriousness of play--preoccupied with forcing the hand of chance within the macrocosm laboriously in their own little corner of the metaverse. I find myself somewhat daunted by the distance in between us.
Depressed and isolated. Constantly preoccupied with the instrumental logic of the material world and the maintenance and perpetuity of my physical existence. I miss my friends. I miss revere. How dearly I wish to be approaching a metaphorical escape velocity.
Still not done trying to save people. Still haven't quite figured out how to love myself. Still chewing on the cud of slave moral. Still looking for external validation. Still searching for an evasive feeling of home. Still desiring the opportunity to set the world ablaze.
I am armed now only with the knowledge of the absurdity of our situation.
Unto Nuit.
Depressed and isolated. Constantly preoccupied with the instrumental logic of the material world and the maintenance and perpetuity of my physical existence. I miss my friends. I miss revere. How dearly I wish to be approaching a metaphorical escape velocity.
Still not done trying to save people. Still haven't quite figured out how to love myself. Still chewing on the cud of slave moral. Still looking for external validation. Still searching for an evasive feeling of home. Still desiring the opportunity to set the world ablaze.
I am armed now only with the knowledge of the absurdity of our situation.
Unto Nuit.