Mush.

Thoughts I thought alone on Christmas:

Life is tension. It’s balanced on the strength of the arch that pulls against gravity, towards its own mass. You are a membrane regulating the diffusion of elements between the vacuum inside of you and the full-on world out there. The void that you are just wants, though the object of the want is arbitrary. You want symbols that are inherently meaningless. You want symbols created by past vacuums, reinforced by the inverted pressure of your vacuum peers. The symbols that you desire reflect the self that is pulling, pulling them in. You are just DNA, a code for a real, live human. You have to pull yourself together from the endless clutter and entropy to form a real, live human. Maybe someday I can be a real, live human too.

Reality is nothing. Reality is imaginary. In fact, the word shouldn’t even exist. If there was one truth out there, we would all see it. The truth would shine brightly like the sun and we would be united in growing towards it. Rather, we cling to concepts like family and art and individuality; concepts whose definitions are nebulous and truly don’t exist. Void. Chaos. The thin membrane in between.

So few things exist. Food maybe, sex maybe, warmth and cold maybe. The urge to move and stretch and press against maybe. The tube of you inches along, consuming and excreting, wanting, wanting. Everything else is just to distract from this base existence, to convince you that you’re not just a tube. We work so hard not to be tubes, then inevitably die and get consumed and excreted by smaller tubes and blobs. They belch out our gasses and ferment our insides.

We find meaning in love because we want meaning and if two people want something hard enough, it has to exist. It just has to. We are all born thusly. We are all born from the dialectic, the conflict between the reality of nothing and the desire for everything. We find meaning in those moments where we don’t exist, in those small deaths. In ritual, in the glow of self-sacrifice, in the unification of sadness we find meaning. Because in those painful and scarce and fast-moving frames we see the true nature of the universe. Because existing is loss, existing is nothing but an emptiness. It is a dull ache, the gnawing hunger of someone who has never eaten. A desire for a thing that isn’t real. That’s humanity, that’s your soul.

That’s the thin line between mania and knowledge. One dopamine receptor. One unanswered question. The patterns you see aren’t real but they’re extant if we all want to see them. Make the goal! Fuck the prettiest girl! Earn the money! It’s a schizophrenic world out there, self-reinforcing and hierarchical. It’s the gravity so strong that not even light can escape.

The things that you’re made of are falsehoods. You can only be your surroundings, the carbon and the electricity of the vacuums that came before.

 

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