Can the thrills one seeks actually change, or do you just keep doing the same things in different forms to try and control or give rise or placate or evolve into a leaner, meaner, monster? What sense of nonsense makes sense when you can’t make sense of sense? The bills will never all be paid.
The flowery buttery bullshit that you love can be found in a park on a bench or in your back yard with a book or sitting on a blanket at the beach or in your head when you close your eyes and imagine doing any of those things or even if you sit at your computer when you haven’t in a bit and vomit strings of words together stoned because it’s the unofficial holiday for cannabis in all it’s forms…you are a shit ton of mistakes wrapped in starlight and neurons in the middle of a galaxy of the strangest shit, like have you even ever seen a giraffe in real life? What sense of nonsense makes sense when you can’t make sense of sense? The lights will go out eventually. There’s nothing impressive unless it’s filling in your particular gaps-ahem- some of which you have grown and others you were born with and you’ve less choice in the matter than your preferences and defiance actually force you to believe that you’re believing. How thrilling can fate even be? Are you living your life to the fullest or just trying to avoid bloodshed? Are you hiding from the hive mind or indulging your bulbous fantasies in a prison of your own making? What sense of nonsense makes sense when you can’t make sense of sense? The pain of dying hasn’t really even begun. Can you be thrilled by breathing or dancing or kissing a strange boy in a strange room where you’ve never been formally introduced- do you ever stop feeling what you feel when you feel thrills or are you choosing which hallucinations fit best? You’re not lonely you actually want to connect too much like a blob oozing over anything standing and leveling it all under your weight and sweat and hateful pulsating prickly individuality and gravitas- grateful for opportunities to be ungrateful and waiting for the next chance you’ll invent soon in order to lose control to your senses again and see what survives. Thirst is passed on generationally. What sense of nonsense makes sense when you can’t make sense of sense? Quiet your mind and simply know whatever connections you think you are missing are illusory at best, you’re a beast underneath looking for chances to destroy shit like a morally uncorrupted natural occurrence, like sunburn on fragile skin- so thrill seeker sit with your demons a spell or can’t you handle the reality of nothingness- can you change or are you doomed to drown under the auspices of borrowed wit? The costs will be calculated sooner than you expect. What sense of nonsense makes sense when you can’t make sense of sense? Can you hold it in?
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 