Bullshit

 The child gleefully laughed as his parents pretended to be weak and playfight with him. 

In the childish innocence of the fantasies the group had weaved together, he found reprieve from a world that was already growing too barren to support the fertile ground of his imagination. 

And then suddenly the ground was pulled apart from beneath him. He had passed the trial stage, into the most elaborate game of them all. 

Ambitions, drives, desires, struggles. The theater of a thousand lifetimes.

Each day he woke up, his mind entrenched into the depth of this plot. Every turn of a cog in this mechanistic masterpiece would set off a cascade of reactions. The result - a mind always at odds with itself. Always restless, never quiet. 

Getting consumed by his own suffering, as the world seemed to close in around him. The illusion threatening to really kill him. And yet it never did. 

It just sapped his life force away more and more - in the expectations of the kernel of a company he kept, in the superficiality of the interactions with those outside it, in the innecessant chattering that would never let up. Driving his mind to its edge, again and again. Running along those same contours that dug into his brain until it got so tired that its only wish was deliverance; for it all to stop. 

The sheer ridiculousness of this demand, and the sheer horeshit that passes for communication in society angered him. How is it that so many of us put up with this? Relentless judgement from husks of mediocrity? Each utterance is like putrid vomit reeking of untruth - promises unkept, curiosities left uncovered, intellectual realisations that never translated to experience. 

And yet we continue paddling around in this sludge, seduced by our suffering. What really stops him? When all the bullshit has been seen through? What is one to do? How is one really to live life?

And your mind again jumps for resolution, an answer. Too afraid, too lazy to enquire for itself. Yes. We are doomed, beyond saving. But what if there is a way? That openness. Perhaps that is the only pointer to that which is sacred. Nothing may be guaranteed. Or rather, if something is to be guaranteed it is the absolute possibility of your failure. Without any silver lining. You have wasted 20, 30, 40, 60 years of your life (if you are truthful enough to accept this of course). Is what it seems like. 

Perhaps I am the retarded one. I am not unable to do this local optimization. It takes a certain level of dishonesty and denial to get to the moderate level of "success" I have come to in life. And yet life just keeps on coming, relentlessly. Will you wear the mask of social identity to escape the flowing of truth, or are you ready to be carried on by its tumultous flow? Here it is again. An example of the unserious vomit I allow to pass as writing. For how could I try to express the perfection of silence. 

Thank you (from my brain).