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Wednesday, March 22, 2006

so, what if i got famous, someday?

Controlling me in a way that I wish to be controlled. Not direct control, but subconscious, unconscious whatever that is. I want to feel skin, to be touched, to be dominated, to feel something, but I am most productive when I have no skin to touch, no soul to divulge myself into. I have these thoughts, these obsessions of mind within my head which damage me. I don’t know where they lead or where I have to go. I am trapped. Staring at a blank empty white wall, like a canvas and even though I have every color of every fucking rainbow on the earth, there is nothing to paint because one painting wants to merge into another painitings until there are no paintings left because everything is one. I want everything to be one. All of it, everything to just be one huge orgasm of simultaneously individual itches. He is gone and everything is gone, but I don’t miss anyone or anything because I am content with my head. I am going to do the same thing today as I did yesterday. I am dancing on a huge stage, they are all watching me and I am flying, I am speaking to the mass populace with my body and they all understand me. Maybe someday someone will understand what is in my head. Too many thoughts, too many visions, too much of so much and not enough to do anything in the supposed real world. Blasting in my head and there is absolutely nothing I can fucking do. Nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing. Why smile why sad why rules of everything. Everything is a goddamn rule, a conduct, everything is the same shit. There is black on one wall and white on the other and in between a line. The line is neither black or white and as I am writing this I am knowing that someone out there is comparing my grabbled confusion to that of j.d salinger. Fuck everything. What the hell is original anyway. These thoughts coming from the dead, from the living, from places that the greatest scientists and most advanced mind readers don’t understand. And now I’m writing them and they’re gonna be judged. By people who have jobs. Jobs that make money so they can buy shit. And more shit. And then they can fly places and talk about the shit they have or the shit they want out of life which will in turn get them to know more people who are like them and then they’ll feel a connection and all of a sudden we all know each other and we’re all a big happy family. Life isn’t like a movie, white men can’t jump, this is the best of 1999, balbala, all of these stereotypes and titles, and that’s all that men and women can muster up after years of all this. All of this, how can they all just accept this?? That it’s a fact that I am writing right now and that they are reading and that we all are just living in this mass of people and stars and universe and everything. And that its all real. Everything is ridiculous to me. How can anybody or anything tell me what to do? I don’t believe any of it. Which is why I believe in anything. Yes I can fucking fly. Yes I can lift objects with my mind. Why? Because I don’t believe that I am writing on this laptop and that to my left is a water bottle and this is a house in a city in a country in the world. I don’t fucking believe any of it. It’s a joke, a lie, some wack delusion. Is this really it? And then if I get famous for ranting this supposed philosophy or what the dumbasses will categorize it as, then what? Then my face will be on the cover of every magazine and newsstand and they’ll all talk about me and try to figure me out and then what? Ok so I’ll have my big house and my happy life and I’m still gonna be one in a million of others who live in this what is this anyway? Stars? Planets? Yeah I know shit. I know everything. I’m in the intellectual circle and potheads like me too. But it doesn’t really matter does it?

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