westid

as though locked into a causality loop of time; following the final instructions as though a procedure and not a spirit of man. selectively deciding which one of those the instructions on itenerary there were

prove all things
hold fast that which is good
abstain from all appearance of evil

he walked through the gauntlet of maligned scrutiny founded on the conjecture. there could be a focus group discussion to determine things, relatable to the rest of us, and though it would be completely for him to understand- the constant conclusions are redundant, self reflection never led to anything new. but he could adapt, he chose his role models carefully. all of whom fundamentally unable to gain advantage nor underhand agenda because of an integrated tendency toward the destruction of the self in most things. character building as it is, character people

“nihilism didn’t call out to me,” such a philosophiser. “it was just a yes or no answer.”

i watch him, on the verge of all my thoughts. scribbling away – black pens all over the place, notebooks, incoherent tangents of a tangent – padded with a wedge of blank pages to act as a divider for the quasi categorised miscellany of his thoughts. he knows who i am; if i look straight at him he will turn to dust. if i listen to what he thinks then he will get his money’s worth from knowing that there’s a way in here then i will never shut him up

sometimes his thoughts flare up and in the very moment they do i am taken by something. this must be what shell shock feels like, i think. explosions are something else but all i did was piss myself because someone put a gun to my head. there’s no fathomable depths there to sink into. no … maybe there could be. when he realises something profound it happens to both of us, but it always scares the shit out of me when he goes quiet

what am i going to tell them? who are they going to understand? your whole life is the lurid precipice, at any moment you are one sick note away from falling down the side of the cracks in the tectonic plates between the faithful, the fearful, and the famine

if i were to stumble upon fame and fortune i’ve often espoused (and it echoed through the lost forest of the dick heads) that i’d be outta here within a week. but when i put myself on the spot about that – you know, what would be the first order of business sort of thing – all i can come up with (without really thinking about it and changing my mind several times) is things i’d do or get or build or make or something for other people. the first order of business, the people who believed me when they had the freedom of nothing to gain; the second chances when no one would trust a word i’d say; the loyal when everyone saw which way the winds were blowing and as soon as they changed on me they all flopped the other way

you can’t get your hands on love. no matter how popular or loaded you are. but loyalty might be worth a few quid. how would i know? but then i’ve gone from fuck all back to the beaudiful people before … and i never forgot a single one of these people who were solid boys when i needed them, try to be so solid maybe when they need me

nobody needs me, so that’s easy. easy mode.