Stream of Consciousness: 8.2.17

Sounds a lot better than Word Vomit, at least.

Man, fuck, nothing. The human condition, more or less. I’ve been thinking about happiness; that inconsequential state to which we pour most of our longings and attributions. To which we bow. The only necessary god we have.

Well, I mean, there are others too, but happiness is one which a lot of people have trouble with.

We seek that moment like a drug, where life is just sorta together: where every serendipity is lined up exactly and you feel like a furnace that just’s been fed some coal; low orange flame licking black char for energy. As the moments of your life array themselves, and each of them brings a feeling of fullness. As if you’ve eaten just enough, and now you get to sit back, and be.

And then some shit steals your focus, and you want to beat the everloving shit out of who ever took it.

Happiness isn’t a state: it’s motion, man.

This maybe too focused for these pieces, but, like, at the risk of pedantic shittiness: happiness is like consciousness: you can’t pinpoint it, you have to let it go whichever damn derpy way it pleases.

Happiness is about trust.

This is starting to get rhythmic….woops.

Happiness requires that you take a back seat in the car of your life, and just watch life take the wheel and smoothly turn it like a suburban mom who gets really obsessed with driving her mini-van. That subtle twist of the wheel that has all the effortless grace of having put too much effort in a previous life. Seeing that distance between you and the turn close with the consummate silk of a professional.

You have to watch, and you have to sit, and you have to be, and you have to just…let, man. And that shit is hard as fuck, especially when you’re smaht. Hahd Ah couhtesy of Boston.

Luh you, Boston.

Like check this shit out: i’m just some miserable cunt on the internet, intentionally spouting close to literal nonsense on  a website that no one watches. I have feelings, and I have a horrible desire to be relevant, even though that’s such an inane, obnoxious desire. But here I am, pretending I matter, in this little space i’ve carved out. I’m not thinking, but I am certainly smiling.

This isn’t really for anybody, it’s for me. So it makes me happy. I get to do what I want, and I feel safe; even though the internet is the least safe thing there is for ideas.

People have killed themselves cause of it. The crushing pressure of being hated. People have had breakdowns. We’re entering a whole new paradigmatic shift into the world of communication. We’re creating a new means of communicating thoughts. And here this swinging dick with 2 followers is, talking about the importance of not doing shit.

Like, I astonish myself with my own irrelevance. And, on my shittier days, it hurts. I stare at my phone, hoping for some meaningful notification. I sit at my desk at work, or any other venue. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter that I’m alone, or that I’m lonely. I let myself think that I matter, even though, pretty categorically, I do not. I’ll sip my coffee, thinking about all the things I find wonderful. I’ll pretend that I’m not eyeing the pretty girls, and pretend I’m not trying to get their attention by being cool. And on my bad days, I’ll try really hard.

But there are good days too, where none of this silent, arhythmic isolations means anything. it doesn’t fucking matter, I’m just me, that’s all that matters. and I’m watching the world be this big chaotic clusterfuck of awful things, and awesome things. I’m there for it, in my body, which is scarred beyond belief from insecurity. That I fight to love everyday.

I don’t think about everything wrong with me, or why I’m alone. I don’t question the fact that I feel so horribly insignificant in this large question of the universe, or the fact that all I’ll ever do really doesn’t amount to all that much.

I’m just watching the sunshine; I’m singing, I’m twirling a drumstick. I’m Gene Kelly dancing in the rain. I matter, because I’m happy, and I feel that I do.

That’s the only real difference between a happy person, and a miserable shit, too. Even the people who plaster on those fake smiles, those secret wars of attrition to convince you that you need to be up in their shit because they matter so much. But inside they’re empty…or maybe not.

I have a real hard-on against not judging people…and waxing poetic, when it does suit me. And you are always judging people, when you’re trying to see their nougaty center. Hell, it may even be caramel, or bastard covered bastard, if you’re really unlucky. But it is always a judgement when you try to see past the skin to the nothing below.

Man, my obsessions need to expand outward, my dude. But not to memes…well, not to internet memes.

I’ll stop.

John Lennon was a miserable cunt, so he knew that happiness was a warm gun; but he didn’t let it get him down. And just because you’re miserable, doesn’t mean you can’t be happy. It doesn’t mean you can’t be happy. It just means you’re not here. Your in that private shadow. And that, my friends, is ok.

I love the feeling of being non-judgmental. Where the smile is soft, and every word is tuned to perfect pitch. Where the husky warmth is true, gentle, and not even a little affected.

I love it, because I need to work on it; but when I not-judge myself, I end up being pretty happy.

And the final biggest secret about happiness? Don’t try: Just do, just be, just sit in your chair, and be ignorant about significance. Once you do, nothing will elude you.

I hear

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