I want to climb mountains, swim oceans, and punch god in his stupid fucking face.
Writers are too modest, too self-deprecating, and not enough god-level anything.
There are hundreds of thousands of pages I could have written, could have should have fucking written.
Silence speaks with no particular meter.
And then, there’s nothing.
Too many want binaries. There’s more than either/or. There’s more beyond the idea as it stands.
Postmodernism. I can’t even begin to like it. It’s like fragmented sadness, but worse somehow. It masquerades as more. Not joy. Not peace.
I used to love my sadness because I could write it beautifully in my own mind.
What is zen? Perhaps something unattainable. A perception created by others’ egos. An illusion in the mind of the master.
People want rules. There are no rules. There are situational truths. And a shifting understanding of what it is To Be.
I am the stillness between Time.
God-level arche writing…
GOD-LEVEL CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT ADDICTED TO FORM.
IF YOU ARE ADDICTED TO LANGUAGE, YOU HAVE ALREADY LOST MEANING.