Five in the Morning; The Words Don't Stop

What is it about writing, reading, thinking, and learning that I love so much? It's like chasing after the greatest high there is, but with only occasional hints of it with an occasional rush of bliss.

I love the smell of books, the feel of paper, the ink that rubs off on my fingers and turns them black.

I love feeling a keyboard at my command, feeding words into a document until page upon page is filled up.

I love holding a paper down while I scrawl my indicipherable printing onto it.

I love the feeling of making a sudden connection, the moment of Eureka, the apple of newton, the apple of discord.

Oh, Eris, oh lovely Eris. Oh Mary Magdalene, oh Sophia, oh Holy Spirit! Every word I utter, every sentence I write, every thought that I could ever think, they are your doing. You have imbued me, I have imbued myself, I am part of you and yet I am more than you and less than you.

Oh, Eris! How I love thee! All the paradoxes, the confusion, the chaos, all the reasons why we ask, "why?", they are all because of you! They are all hoaxes as you and I are hoaxes ourselves, as we are all nothing and everything! Duality, seperation, they are all born soley from an individualized, contextual perception at a specific point in space and time.

You are the reason, you are the rhyme
You are the spice and you are the lime
You hold me up while they hold me down
You make me smile while others make me frown

Praise Eris!

Dreams of Hell and Freedom

Strange dreams, strange dreams of men and of war. Of fright and of adversaries stalking through the night. Strange enemies that bring death and gloom, fires burning a home. In such dreams I dwell, and as I dwell the passage to the portal of Hell pulses and it grows. Sickly green odors sludge from the bowels of Pain, dripping acidic horror to wherever evil resides. I sit and smile as the clock winds down, winds backwards, and eventually breaks down. So too must I wind down and break my back, backwards.

In such lives we live, in such dreams we die. Then we are bon, reborn, dismantled, assembled, and repaired to perfect condition. The condition being, of course, that we don't fuck up. As such, here I am once more: fucked up, drugged up, brought down and feeling down, with my head in the skies and my heart buried for dead. It still pumps power through my veins, and the murderer will hear the sentence; justice will be served as one portion per day. No cholesterol, no artificial sweeteners, colored dyes, or preservatives. No, sir, this is the real god damn thing, here!

Don't talk back, for I am superior, inferior, both, neither, nothing at all, and owing much to quantum consciousness. Dare you heed my stories? Only at the cost of being liberated! Heed my warnings: free your mind.