I'm trying to make a difference in this world. I'm trying to keep philosophy alive. I'm trying to influence your mind all the while mine is traveling an a billion directions at once.
I believe a little insanity is a good thing.
I'm inspired by life and I'm inspired by brains and nature and love and happiness and obsessiveness and anything else that's in this universe and outside of it. I think too much. I write compulsively. I don't want society to stop reading. I don't want society to stop creating. I want to contribute to this planet's literature that is so often hidden under media, pop culture, and other things that won't really matter in fifty years.
These are my thoughts, and I can't control them. I can't control the words that flow out of my brain and through my body.
This is word vomit. And I'm not cleaning it up.
of you
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing is real.
Your thoughts, that’s all that matters. The shouts in your head that ricochet against each other, they possess you. They hold you. Rip you. Pull you from one side of this void to another as you thrash and try to hold on to something steady.
Let go, don’t be a fool. Don’t be a fool because what you think is steady isn’t even there.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Everything in front of you, everything that overcomes you, everything that takes over your time.
Everything you’re in love with. Everything you loathe. Everything that keeps you awake at night, it’s all your fault. All your fault or all your masterpiece. All your creativity and all of your creations.
The fears on the bus go round and round, the echoes of the laughter linger in still air the longer they’re given attention, the love always remains, they say. They say.
They say because they think.
What even matters? Nothing. Everything. Anything. If it matters to you now, you can blame your head. If you’re not worried, if you’re not torn, if you’re not troubled, you can thank your head.
Every single construction of reality that we form comes from thoughts. What is a monument but a few pieces of wood, concrete, and hardware? What is sacred but that which we have been taught is so? Who is important but that which we consider is important? Or rather, who is important but that who we wish wasn’t?
Thoughts are to blame. Through fortune and fame. Through sick and destruction, construction, reproduction. What’s good is good, believed to be. I can’t see, I can’t think, I can’t breathe. What’s bad is bad and made up in my mind. What rips, it tears, what falls, it crashes, what’s lost is shared.
This is nothing. This isn’t material. What is material will be lost, what is sacred has been burned, what is a monument will fall. But what won’t fall? What won’t fall are the thoughts and the memories and the learned rules and the constructions and monuments we have built in our minds.
Everything else. Everything else is nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
