Die-A-Logs

“Why are you still here, man?”

I heard the only real philosophical dilemma is whether or not to continue living. That being said, what’s your excuse? Either direction requires one. I sat down at the table with the Gloomy Bastard himself. I excused myself before the banquet was served. I smoked a cigarette on the back porch and took to the woods. I’ve been known to fall out and bounce back. Maybe I’m not that attached to this form. I’m trying to be zen without lying to myself. It rarely works. So I poison myself with little tricks and desires.

“You say that now. No food and cigarettes? You’ll regret blood clots in your phlegm.”

I’m told that smoked meat lasts longer… but I know. I know. I’ll die in some horrible way. Or maybe I’ll die in my sleep. Maybe I’ll die with you; maybe you’ll die with me.

“What’s with all this heavy shit, man?”

The only heavy thing is this corpse that my soul carries. The battery is pretty reckless. It sparks and jolts and shocks the nerves. If you know what I mean, keep nodding your head along with me. We got spiritual charge like that drumming bunny. It occurs to me: there’s a ghost in the meat bag. Somebody, let some cats out of the burlap sack! Who knows how many lives they have left?

“I wish I knew what you were talking about.”

I’m over and under; scarcely direct. Nobody cares to read much these days; I don’t blame anybody. My heart is sincere. There is a broken prose I’ve found, near the place I almost drowned. I brought a message back, but it’s going to take at least ten years for the transmission to complete. Who knows if I’ll make it that long? It’s imperative that I rattle and ramble without form; that’s the only way some answers break through. From me to you. It’s ‘we’. You feel alone in the crowd sometimes? How could so many of us feel lonely when we’re together?

“I don’t feel that way.”

I’m not here to convince you of the sincerity of your melancholia. It’s a tender subject. You are human. You are made with receptors. Your antennae may be clogged and bogged down. I don’t have a solution. I just have problems and a file cabinet the size of the Gaza Strip. There’s a crater-filled giant that magnetizes my soul. Like the moon pulls oceans, it tugs at desire. There is gravity that we cannot perceive. It weighs down upon the frailties of man. Can we truly bear the weight of existence? Or would it be easier to just wait for a dissolution of marriage?

“Marriage?”

Whether or not we like it, we are wed to these bodies. To this mind. To this plane(t). Some choose peace, some choose war, some choose not to choose. It all breaks itself down into the Akashic records. It really doesn’t make a difference what we do. Experiences happen for the sake of experience. Life is futile, in development. Fate is sealed, in envelopment. So here I am, playing chain mail games with hope. I pick a stamp and lick it twice, hoping that it makes it home. Broken links fall off the map. Everything we do amounts to a mountain. It doesn’t make sense until you’re at the top. You see everything that went into the design. The cause and the effect. Everything we do, think, and say bears relevance to the whole. If you don’t get it now, you will later. Just laugh. We’re on a mad river to nowhere.

“You should probably lay off the psychedelics.”

If that were the dilemma, my pupils would have swallowed up the universe already. My head is clear. My resistance to conventional insanity is born of an older mind. It’s at least as old as Sanskrit. We are mind. Mind is matter. Matter is void. We walk spinning wheels through revolving doors of the soul. Seek to transmute the wandering brain into an evolving mind-manifesting. That’s what this is about. What you see is what you get. Love vibrations are infinite. We are fragments of a whole.

“Word. When are you going to break away from all this spiritual crap and write something we can all feel?”

I’ve got a few shreds of flesh to spare on a story. Virtue is a practice, patience is a silence.

“‘All good things in all good time’, yeah?”

Yeah. Especially death.

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