Nonfiction 5/25

I live like a book.
That doesn’t necessarily mean I live in books like a bookworm. It really just means that I live my life like a book. I let things wash over me as images and take them as metaphysics.

When I do, when I act, I improvise entirely. I’m at a point now where I improvise with every single person with whom I come into contact. I have no ‘interests’, per-se. I am interested by purest language, by purest beat, by purest vibration, by purest tone.

I am repulsed by tone for style. Style for beat. Beat for language. I could go on with these combinations. It’s odd, because that means I’m shunning the people who happen to like those things. The thing is, I don’t know these people, because they don’t know they like those things.

Do I know what I like? Yes. Can I effortlessly describe what it is that I like? No. I like simplicity in complexity, and I rarely like anything else. Rarely means occasions other than the guaranteed acceptance. I like a walking bass line. I like a 500 foot home run. I like a list of all the different kinds of chocolate in the world. I like taking something that everybody on this earth would think about and make it something that nobody would think about.

Porcupines are cute, right? What if a porcupine were to start up a small business in the middle of skunk country? Would the skunks be intimidated by the porcupine’s initial success? Would they leave menacing notes of odor around the porcupine’s establishment to let him know that he’s not welcome?

Those are the questions I ask of the world, ask of the reader, ask of the writer, ask of God.

Is it a crime to ask questions that nobody else wants to answer? Is that why I prefer to be alone with my thoughts most of the time?

I have a few kindred spirits who may enjoy indulging my wild thoughts and becoming avatars of the present tense with me. These spirits are few, but growing. I know it.

I don’t often go looking for these spirits. They often find me. They see me and think I could be like them. Often times I am, because I am like everybody sometimes.

Everybody is a nice affectation, sure, but it’s very heavy. Billions of personalities, even if they only weigh an ounce each, still make billions of pounds. I don’t like carrying a bag of faces on my back. I like holding my face to the sky. I know there are others, but I’m just sucky at finding them.

I’m running in circles now. But what is life if not cyclical?


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