this is where i enter text



and now so i publish another piece of shit

Or is this even published if i put it up on a blog that no one reads in the uncharted backwaters of the galaxy?

If i waste all of the work I've put in and the readings and the writings to put these words on the internet for no profit, will you buy me some food tomorrow? Share some wine?

What if I had no talent? What if all I could do was grunt?
Would you be more likely to share or less?

Which is the best or the worst or the way we were or the way we should be?
The way we would be? Is that better? Would based on what? Could based on how?
The best? The worst? We don't even know these words any more.  They are simply chatty talk to be a way of 1 or 0, black or white, fight fight fight.  We gotta know where you stand, otherwise how will we tell where you'll fall when we split open your head and take out it all?

That is, the stands that you take... are they worth your life?
The life that you breathe as your own... is it worth your stands?
But what if instead of taking stands you sit? What if instead of picking sides you know that the divine or ineffable or merely the sense of order or even the sense of entropy that pervades the universe... what if you know that the sense that is there taken is one of non-judgement?  What if rather than the hottest places in hell being reserved for the fencesitters that the hottest place in hell is reserved for every single time you took a stand on anything?

Who the hell said there was a hell?
Who the hell said there wasn't?
What the hell is a hell anyhell?
Just a metaphor? Just a myth?
Then why does it still chill me, despite being brought up without religion?  Why does it still gnaw at me like an unfed pup? The same reason it disappears from me when I look it head-on as I cannot contain the concept.  Or the way that it runs from my side when there are so many other things to mull over.

This is me.  I'm just a guy typing at you.  Or... typing at myself in the future.  Or... typing at us in the future.  Or just typing at the future because I can't reach the past no matter my wingspan or howmany stools I stand upon to reach the cookie jar.

I shout I shout but there's too much to let it all out.  I reach the bottom and still there is more. Unlike Pandora's box which mercifully had a floor.  These words tumble and tumble until the ventilator blues suck them in, clean them up, and spit them out.  But still mine again mine again hit the ore again or again walk away.  Dig into the earth and see what there is.  Fly into the sky and see what there isn't.  Deep into your mind and relax the nothing.

Across the nothing for no one, a wasted effort a shrug.

Naw, this ain't a breakup post... unless I'm breaking up with trying.  Or not-trying.  I can('t) hardly tell the difference anymore. Or is it just that I'm half-trying at everything these days?  Is the future a real thing that I need to concern myself with or is this just some infinite present?  Is the life something I have and is mine or will it just be degifted and was just on loan?  What the heck is a life anyway but a way of describing breathing?

How is your breath today?

Have you been caring for your breath? Deepening, broadening? Understanding the filling? Grasping the emptiness?  Is this just a mental exercise or a physical?  Why do I keep giving false choices?  Why is there a need to speak in questions?  Is there a way to express doubt without a mark that asks?

My breaths might well be pointless, but is that any different from yours? Or the rest of ours?  Or the best of ours?  When we add up the long sum of humans, will breath be anything other than the most important thing we did?

Are we just alchemists turning stars to poop?
Are we just magician's assistants flooding all that surrounds us with ephemera?

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"He's just this guy, you know?"