The Existential Paradigm of What It Means To Be A Color
Then again, I don’t know how I ended up here. The same events tying me down day after day but then again, who am I really? Am I a color or am I just the palette? What applies, and what doesn’t? Perhaps I’m just writing subconsciously here, but then again, the subconscious shines through anything and everything.
It’s funny when you want to write about yourself but write about everything else other than you at the same time. It creates an interesting layer, I suppose.
When it gets down to it, my own two feet rest on a carpeted surface as I type about my two feet resting on a carpeted surface.
Do they know they’re being watched?
Are we watched?
Perhaps not by a sentient/divine being, or not even by surveillance cameras, a la conspiracy theorist’s wet dreams.
Are we watching ourselves, is the question!
I watch myself all the time.
Not out of vanity, or out of self-deprecating image-influenced precociousness.
I watch myself out of caution.
I think the Human Condition isn’t worth anything if you don’t acknowledge that you’re scared of yourself.
I’m scared of myself.
I’m scared of what my actions will cause.
I’m scared of what my actions won’t.
I’m scared because I’m scared, and that makes me insecure.
I’m scared because I’m insecure, and so forth.
The paradoxes and the iterations of fear never end.
I’m making myself out to be some overly pretentious philosopher, but everyone thinks of it, I’m quite positive.
Permutations of one’s self never cease to exist until we are happy.
I am happy, though, despite my fears.
I have a girlfriend who’s been contributing to my life in ways that nobody else but me could possibly fathom, but I take it upon my interest and my duties to her heart to remind her every day just how much I love her, and how much she does for me.
She makes my light shine brighter.
Despite my fear.
Now what would you say to that?
We’ve established that I’m an insecure person with an amazing girlfriend that keeps the machine up and running and happily oiled.
What is there left to say?
The Existentialist thing to do would be to say, “What ISN’T there left to say?”
But I’m a color, not just a palette.
I’m going to go ahead and ask, “Why wouldn’t there be anything left to say?” and challenge the existentialist within me.
I’m sure it can get back to me after it’s done analyzing why I’m up at 4:12 in the morning typing out bullshit that probably doesn’t make sense.
I don’t know.
I’m merely a color.
You probably expected a grand idealist to provoke great thought.
Lodestar semantic remapping (what my smartphone dreams)
Against coherence against comedy against wit against taste against social against manners against sweetness against mode. For is disallowed. Logic is a noose. Swim out of products. Drowning in TB sheets. Dam it stop the flow of metareference, it’s hideous: how to take back language and lucidity. Cut off the digits per letter per letter type one-fingered like a hasty fuck. No no no there is not literature now. It’s gone the way of dueling, leave it to guitars, games. There is no place for the literate. Only for books. Books which are having not being. Books which pass time and impart information. Books which give you something to talk about when there is no such thing as life. Books that write your fantasies for you. Where is the proud sickness of books–the perversity of literature? It’s back to the early novels: didactic book club fodder, pages per pay. I can’t write anymore anyway since I went dead. But I’m coming back from the dead and when you’ve been dead ten years you forget how to do much of anything except re-member. Grow a new hide on animal skin, tree guts. The nothingness void of the mere literature is too unsellable. Oh it is not The Word: it is the acknowledgments of no words. Don’t burn it all, freeze it all in scanner blizzards.
I will only to go schizophrenic but logic sticks, thrown in the river stone clogs a tap tapping. Stone clogs I throw into a windmill. The saboteur is maybe color ink, illumination, how to read in the total total dark?
Book has become jigsaw puzzle. Sit in a dark room banging your head on the floor till up pops before-The Word and out of it the literate, the tongueless shoes tied together to trip you. But: too many things, no idea. Take the word away from the tyranny of image. Poison science. Assassinate psychology. Force feed fashion. Laugh uncontrollably at high art. Vomit at jokes. Will literature like me friend me meme then? Never. Because literature is the Voidest oh it is actually borne of near-death experience and nothing else. Everything is near death experience. Ugly ugly these words. They smell of rot. The moldy book smell is the antidote? No? No? Another product. Abolish mimesis how?