windows to see into the screen, into the alley, into your belly. windows to open, windows to close, windows buy time until your brain explodes. garlic breath isn’t it fresh, fresh from the garden of tongue and mouth death. are you depressed. degraded. over-stimulated by the mutated tomatoes staring at you in the center of winter, laughing sinisterly as you chop in delight, those big juicy red tomatoes snicker and slime through your teeth, mushing toxins down your glub. windows to the earth where there is dirt, where fruit grows like old men’s toes. and garlic still leaves your breath smelling of death and rot and rain. Tomorrow.
Am I done with this style, have I over stylized this style am I dead to this way, should I try something not me, something unknown and ghoulish or just keep trucking through hoping that I’m doing the right thing?
Who really knows what the right thing is anyway right? We all have our own minds. Each of us have comprehended the earth in our own way, yet we are all connected in a very threadlike manner to one another, whether we like it or not, whether we agree on anything else, we have to agree on the fact that we are all here trying to deal with one another. Our ideas may be complete opposites or somewhere in the grays. It could be that there are parts of our own selves that we don’t even like, so how could we ever like anyone else completely, totally, purely? Is purity something humans are even capable of? I mean how can one ever be innocent? I don’t mean in any catholized “we’re all sinners” sort of way, but in a way that right out of the womb we’re left jarred, forced into a world of someone else’s making. And the entire time we’re left here trying to figure shit out. Because we never figure it all out. Which at times seems wonderful, an endless array of learning, yet at other times it seems overwhelming and heavy, like the weights of time and ignorance are being set on one’s chest. But, I like to think everyone feels that way, but then again that’s me generalizing humanity, which I obviously shouldn’t do since each and everyone of us have different experiences. Just as a quick example, think of driving down the road with another person—you see everything out of the right window, she sees everyone out of the left. In those moments of flash by experiences you could see a fight or a bird or a giant frog which could spark a memory or an idea that the driver would never have even thought of—it’s just so weird and obvious I guess, but the more I think about it the more it sort of creeps me out. What brought you to reading this? What brought me to writing it?
Does it make a difference at all? Is it supposed to? And if so should I be a doing a better job at whatever it is I am supposed to be communicating right here for you to read? How is it that we are so separated from one another? Surely we are all connected in a greater more mystical way—so why can’t we be kind to one another?
Why can’t you move over when I am walking down the same sidewalk? Really, why? That is my singular most greatest mystery about life—when I can figure it out I believe I will understand the meaning of life.
I used to think that when I understood the meaning of life—that whenever that moment came to be and I “got it” I would suddenly implode or get hit by a bus or something because there would be no more reason to live. But then I realized that that could never happen, because the meaning of life is a continual search for meaning.
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