Been too long since I just typed the typer with my dumb thoughts, Gooch reminded to himself. Gooch was talking to himself in the third person and wondering why he’d do that. “Why don’t I just say what I think with the “I”, as that comes natural.”
OK, Gooch, go ahead.
It’s been too long since I’ve been able to just write what I want without the inner viewer that criticizes because I’m anticipating the reactions of others. I need this dumb stuff just to keep my life going. Why is it that life in Society feels so much like a masked ball? Do I reject happiness? Can I not get with the program? Or is there something deeper?
What feels so funny about existing? Why is there always this ambiguous ambivalence to the possible attitudes I could take on my experience?
Have we developed so far as a people and as a generation that multiple irreconciliable ways of viewing the world are over-blown, over-large, over-developed, and now we are slowly beginning to make those connections between said places and notice the immense irony in feeling anything at all? Any worldview whatsoever is bound to its emotions, to contingent facts about the human developing those worldviews—to things outside of the worldview’s own control. There is no self-control in developing any philosophy of life. There is no reason to view a certain aspect of the world in a certain way. And when you can see numerous kinds, or are weird enough to be pulled in multiple directions at once, this vision becomes clearer.
Art serves no purpose. Art serves no purpose. Art serves no purpose. Art serves no purpose.
I’d like to be weird again, if that was possible. I don’t want to fit in. I don’t want to be a millionaire. I don’t want to be a success because I worry the people I can really enjoy and relate to would have a greater reason not to relate to me.
A unicorn’s horn is ground into powder. The powder is sniffed. The jaw muscles clench and a vast image out of the spirit of the world troubles my gaze. “I have begun to make sense again,” it tells me. “I have begun to build a box around my life and my mind. I continue to do this. I need to break another box.” The spiritus mundi doesn’t need to tell me how this is accomplished: the trademark method, the most common-est thing, is crippling depression. Only then will the boxes be totally broken.
Or maybe not. Maybe it’s less simple. It probably is. See? I cannot trust myself here. And as I verbalize the things I do, I realize I am in a sort of feedback mechanism that determines how I will continue to see and shape things. Why is this? What am I doing? Why is this so insane?
The crushing spirit of the century is coming to make its nest even in the most hospitable encounters. There is no such thing as a goal. There are limited goals only—“goals” here, in our brains, the way they were designed, the things that make them important, the reasons “goals” exist, is for something like fixing the handle on a leaky toilet. Making yourself a sandwich, maybe. That is the only goal. There can be no extra goal. If you begin to think on an extra goal in a way that is humble, sincere, rigorous, thoughtful, etc., you will begin to break that goal and then feel amiss. You will feel ashamed. You had fooled yourself and now you are left holding the bag to a dream you really can’t afford.
I am existing and surviving . I don’t think I will even “live life more vividly” than anyone else. I don’t think there is any disclaimer or hidden, subversive logic that can escape the lack of a goal. There is no goal to human existence. There can only be… What you are currently doing. There is no positive assertion to make about anything. ‘Whereof one cannot speak, one must pass over in silence.’
And yet I want to feel better. I don’t know what that is, or where that is, but it seems important that I can get from where I am currently to a place other than where I am. There are people to satisfy; successes to accomplish; boxes I must curl into like a cat. But I need to break the boxes. So what does that do, then?
In the morning time, when the spell and the seagull fly… You are free to exhaust yourself on thinking. There is no reason to feel bad about it—feeling bad about self—exhaustion in thinking, that exhaustion itself: they are both the same and different.
This is a therapeutic mechanism. What it is for is something different than the words used to describe it. I can’t tell you what this is. You don’t need to read this if you don’t like. But here I am, working on myself. This page is a kind of medicine. The passage of time during this piece of paper is a therapeutic mechanism. I am just typing. Continue to generate things to type about. They can be anything. The more “anything” they are, the better it will be. Big Beautiful Women pornography, for instance. Cheese graters. Hatred of nice people. Things like that. Anything. More anything than anything, that’s best.
Absurdism is an oxymoron. Smart people are the biggest, most vicious idiots in the progress of the human. Clever girls will be eaten by velociraptors.
A velociraptor meets an owl on the road. They become friends. Can a velociraptor be domesticated? Can I undo my mistakes? Can I become a different person? These thoughts propel the wheel.
You push hardest when it’s bad, you pull hardest when it’s good, and the entire system continues to move. It is a wheel. Can someone place the body of a large truck on top of me and let me behave in my normal stupid way? I can take that truck places. That is my purpose. If there was one. I would be completely oblivious to it.
Bill Gates’ purpose is to accidentally knock a pack of gum out of a 7-11 when he is 72 years old. The cashier will be bent down to pick it up and see a tile on the floor in a new way. Three days later she will use the word “tile” in an unexpected context. This will cause the person with whom she is speaking to have a slightly different dream three nights from then. That was God’s plan for Bill Gates.
Barack Obama’s purpose was fulfilled when he was 17. He did a line of cocaine that kept his party-friend from doing it. That line of cocaine would’ve hurt his friend much worse, and this was God’s plan for Barack Obama. His nose is strong.