Sunday, February 10, 2019

i know today i didn't express myself so well. awkwardly really. there's no way to express now tomorrow. and you can't skip it. you can say skip it, but it doesn't matter, you're still doing it right now, do nothing, you're still doing it. you can blank it if you want. so that's it. that's your expression. blank. you can meditate emptiness. i feel the emptiness and i feel words and pictures. i might get behind the words. i might be an awkward expression, of my awkward self.
i read how we express ourselves in clichés, to hide from reality behind words. but nowadays there doesn't seem to be a reality, there's real that's fake, and there's fake that's real, things, like these evergreens at this luxury highrise rental, i looked and they were almost dimensional, i mean they were sort of flat and convex, conical and lenticular, flat enough to look real and also provide a screen, a picture of the reality they might be displaced by, when the construct is done, or they may already be real enough. if something looks real enough why bother maintaining reality, and watering and trimming? 
in the shower i thought about talking to grandma weezie, who knew everything she needed to know from one black book. dumbfounding me every time. i tried to ask about other books and what if i read them, and what if i believed, what if i was indigenous, of some mother earth religion, what if never knew of her black book? i read one book called the black book on the taboo of knowing who you are. or maybe i'm conflating two books,or three, probably, for convenience. would i burn in hell? i asked the weez. wail... yes, i reckon. and she didn't even sound sorry, though i'm sure she thought that she might scare me to the straight path, neyond belief that it was too late, even for a delinquent bibliophiliac sinner like me. is was weezie for real? i wish she could tell me now, from her pulsar paradise beyond this mortal reality screen, is it real?

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