day 8

nothing creates this empty noise, that creeps up behind you, NO wait,
from the sides and makes you pause to wonder if it is worthwhile to even bother standing at the crossroads. And you realise it's you big O - your mouth.

And you say, either:

I pretend "it's fine." I pretend "it's worse."

And hope lies
in between them,
messing me up,
calming me...
restoring me
in an equilibrium
that I do not
want to be at...

that is the question - a pathetic thing they called existentialism.
I hate that big word. I hate -isms.
What is the fuss about existing when you're already forced to be, breathing and shitting as we tug after and along whoever our predecessors (sorry mum, dad for using a big word on you) may be. If you ask me, I don't give a shit what Derrida wrote about SIGNS, SIGNIFIERS, and SIGNIFIED.

I rather give the damn shit about how to pretend to be, even though I am so clueless about the next meal I will have.
My books are a great wall, a porcelain one, since we're talking about a great wall, we might as well talk about the one in China - that I have never visited.
They are as depressing as they are exciting. Exciting to sleep with, and doze with after reading. Depressing to know they actually make so much sense in writing...and does nothing to relieve the pain, the slings and the arrows of those who so do not want to exist. I mean, seriously...who gives a damn about tropes, metaphors and similes?

I am as blur as a cock.

My Margins of Philosophy cost me $44.95 at Borders.

The Huns cost me 5 minutes to read about at wikipedia.

Right down to the mere history of my mere existence, I frankly, have no way of writing about myself. I'll just lose myself in the existence of my medium, and forget who I am anyway. I'd actually prefer to log down the food I ate yesterday. That would be a great history of Alvin's bowel movement.

To purge us of those things superfluous would be to deny ourselves of what we consist of:
SHIT.

And so, as we learn anew what SHIT means, we should remind ourselves that there are some people who will never be able to read my SHIT as written here. Instead, they will still go about shitting, till the last dump. We will do well that it does not matter if we read or not. It matters, most of all, what we eat. Worded shit forming worded sentences, that piled up one after another, after another, and more worded shit as anthologies, readers, inventories of inventories, with extensive catalogues and bibliographies of more worded shit to read, to fart, and to produce more shit for the benefit of those with constipation and we release them - - - with pleasure, more, the temptation of a fig tree leaf, and next to uncover the pleasures of the naked skin, lying just next to the hole that produce those shit, those gases -

hence, noise.

or for lack of a better word,
manure.