fichtion
I already wrote about this, but I'll go again. Read about David Foster Wallace. A genius, yet so wrong in regard to math and, AND, grammar! What! His mom wrote that book on grammar. God damn it. What is going on! I can't make sense of it. Is anyone perfect anymore? Is anyone a genius anymore? We all seem so human. That's all we are. Fucking humans.
I used to work at a library in college. I used to look at all the books and think about all the philosophical arguments I wasn't aware of. I used to wonder about all the phlilosophy I was missing out on. It used to agonize me, it caused anxiety. All that information. All that thought. And I'm just an undergrad. How do I begin to learn? Where is the start? Where to begin? Thousands of books.
I sit in the hall. I do nothing in the hall. The hall could be a metaphor for many things. I don't mean to go on and drag on. I say the same things, I repeat myself, so does a hall. What is it? What do you even notice in that moment you're in the hall? What is there to do? Are you bored or interested, sad or happy? Maybe the hall leads somewhere. Maybe it does not. Hopefully we can think better of halls.
To be mentioned, to be named. It is the same as being remembered, being mentioned. But the word is "mention." Something I do, not something someone else does about me. I mention you. Why? What do you have to do with me? I'm not sure. I must have some idea, some concept, some notion of relation between you and I. Otherwise, why would I mention you?
Many institutions exist. Some to hold you in, others to keep you out. Some in your mind, some in the minds of others, some just outside of the mind. They keep us in or keep us out. Where do we go? How do we escape? Do we want to escape? A prison is an institution, but must an institution be a prison? What way out is there for us? I do not know. Please help us. We need help.
I have employees. I work at a company. But I don't really treat them as employees. Aren't we all employees. Employed to do what, though? What to do in this life? Is this life a job? Or is it a career? Are we free to do as we please? Do we need to earn our keep? What is there to do? Employees working for what? What is our paycheck? What is our pension? Do we get a bonus?
Measured is my reason. But that does not mean one is logical. Reason and truth, what are they. Man is the measure of all things, so said Protagoras. My brother's dog died today. it was killed by a bigger dog. That dog measured larger than the other, smaller dog. That is what happened. What is the measured response to such a thing? What is the reasonable response? To feel sad. To mourn.
i wish I were somebody. I am, but I am not. I don't know what i am. I don't know what is. I want somebody. Won't you be my body? Everybody needs somebody. Body. My body. An item. An effect, a cause. Lovers. Words that bounce and play and pool around one another, words with actual meaning and not these fake bodies that flail and flip throughout our pools. This is never enough, the body becomes tired and old, gruesome, bearing death, death is our horizon. The body will be buried, all our thoughts will be buried.