(no subject)
Make up your mind son.
And go where?
Wherever your mind takes you.
But it wanders.
Make it up!
How am I suppose to listen to my mind and make it up? It sounds impossible.
You make it sound impossible. You make everything.
Not money.
You make money.
No.
Yes.
Not friends.
You make friends.
No.
Yes.
There's something slightly unnatural here.
It all is son. We are minds and bodies separate and at war for we are not natural. We have outgrown our bodies and some would embrace it as transcendental but it is cold and alien.
I embrace it.
You are no son of mine.
No, I don't think I am any son. Not anymore it seems. Boundless with precise flaws all intelligible internally but so far removed from what begat them. The other as I'm sure of as not myself.
They embrace as the only two people on earth can do when given limited options.
------
I am working to find the meaning of life as we all should in our respected stages. And the writing helps me with this, as does music. Because it's sound that pure meaning lies beneath. When the language full of connotations is molded around a sound that becomes urgent, primal, muddied in meaning but finally getting at something that is missing in life. And I believe that may be the purpose of life: to discover and mine and explore and caress that place as much as I can from this body.
And now, we extend our body with means we have, the guitar or the multi-layered video performance pattern test piece.
I'm the same person I was when I was fifteen just with a lot more habits and useless shit in my head.
I want to change language, cause it's happened before and it will happen again, so attempting a fast unevolved change in language will draw people's attention to the giant landslide of a tidal wave that is thou ever consuming English.
All these things I have seen people do and I want to do it too. I haven't written anything worthy of this experiment yet, yet that is all I write. Just as much as it is the sum of all art as it expresses and attempts to translate and obliterate and create but never tolerate. Oh system, oh gorgeous borgeous system with circulatory overtures just to keep itself alive. Cause that's what this all comes down to.
Quivering pieces of meat us all. Meat endows with inexplicable life, torturous life, metamorphosis life a cobra brush life a pillow fight life a flightless average wisp of hopeless nostalgiated half-life half-seditentiary sentiency cozy ominous lurking around and ideology so fragile yet unprodded.
It's nervousness that does this. Specify! Specify! The sticky white pieces of paper come out and the clammy white hands wring forth the sweat from the disgruntled disappointed brows. And this they allow? THIS THEY CAN'T PREVENT? OUTLAW WITHDRAW COMMAND?
The bland lead the bland.
And go where?
Wherever your mind takes you.
But it wanders.
Make it up!
How am I suppose to listen to my mind and make it up? It sounds impossible.
You make it sound impossible. You make everything.
Not money.
You make money.
No.
Yes.
Not friends.
You make friends.
No.
Yes.
There's something slightly unnatural here.
It all is son. We are minds and bodies separate and at war for we are not natural. We have outgrown our bodies and some would embrace it as transcendental but it is cold and alien.
I embrace it.
You are no son of mine.
No, I don't think I am any son. Not anymore it seems. Boundless with precise flaws all intelligible internally but so far removed from what begat them. The other as I'm sure of as not myself.
They embrace as the only two people on earth can do when given limited options.
------
I am working to find the meaning of life as we all should in our respected stages. And the writing helps me with this, as does music. Because it's sound that pure meaning lies beneath. When the language full of connotations is molded around a sound that becomes urgent, primal, muddied in meaning but finally getting at something that is missing in life. And I believe that may be the purpose of life: to discover and mine and explore and caress that place as much as I can from this body.
And now, we extend our body with means we have, the guitar or the multi-layered video performance pattern test piece.
I'm the same person I was when I was fifteen just with a lot more habits and useless shit in my head.
I want to change language, cause it's happened before and it will happen again, so attempting a fast unevolved change in language will draw people's attention to the giant landslide of a tidal wave that is thou ever consuming English.
All these things I have seen people do and I want to do it too. I haven't written anything worthy of this experiment yet, yet that is all I write. Just as much as it is the sum of all art as it expresses and attempts to translate and obliterate and create but never tolerate. Oh system, oh gorgeous borgeous system with circulatory overtures just to keep itself alive. Cause that's what this all comes down to.
Quivering pieces of meat us all. Meat endows with inexplicable life, torturous life, metamorphosis life a cobra brush life a pillow fight life a flightless average wisp of hopeless nostalgiated half-life half-seditentiary sentiency cozy ominous lurking around and ideology so fragile yet unprodded.
It's nervousness that does this. Specify! Specify! The sticky white pieces of paper come out and the clammy white hands wring forth the sweat from the disgruntled disappointed brows. And this they allow? THIS THEY CAN'T PREVENT? OUTLAW WITHDRAW COMMAND?
The bland lead the bland.