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I’d like to ride the boundaries of reality but have no idea where they are or if they exist.



circle of flowers
am i the first to realise
or am i the last


You strained your muscles

you propagated your ideas

you expressed your inspiration

you nurtured your progeny

you led your people

Still the world reflects pain, suffering, decay, injustice, loneliness and emptiness

but now it looks more like yours


stop tugging myself
tightening the is/is-not
let is and ought be

Little faith

I don’t know you. I know a bunch of assumptions and labels and hopes and fears I project and assemble into the model of you I interact with. Or pretend to. It’s not as if I could incorporate you into my reality. I can’t even do that with me.

I don’t know how you experience love or time or pain or lemon-flavoured or red. But I think there really are those things. And that stripped even of the experiences there’s experience itself. Consciousness. That even when you let go all individual difference; all POV; there’s an irreducible subjectivity underlying lived reality. That it’s the same for all and therefore pointless to individuate. Compared to what? Unconsciousness? But I have no objective basis for the belief. I’ve never experienced objective consciousness. So I guess it’s a faith, no matter how real it feels. I think there’s ultimately a you that’s no different to me. Or anything else. That subject and object, cause and effect, are emergent and insufficient.

But even if I am you it doesn’t mean I know you. To know something is to possess it. You can’t own things. Not even yourself.

Getting clean

It wasn’t the expense or the risk. The disease or withdrawals. The pain or fear. It was the lies.

You get used to them. It’s easier to live them than try to remember them. They become automatic. They become you. Mistrusted by all; including yourself. Lies layered on lies like an onion. They have no end. They have to end.

Long after you’re finished you’re still lying. Disbelief makes truth the biggest lie. Junkie. Lunatic. Liar. They keep you simple and easy to deal with. There’s no doorknobs inside.

I never had much truth to speak of. I should stop mourning it.


Fade to grey

Given the vagaries of aging memories, do I have more experience now than thirty years ago?

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