Waiting for fuck all

Most of everything is delusional self-aggrandisement. Pretty much everything you read or hear about, see about, most is the ego unthinking or conscious of what it is or being “in the moment” or “in the hole” or “composure”.

Pretty much nothing.

There’s not much thought really or a whole lot of introspection and we, when I mean I, react against this meaninglessness.

When writers write they mean them. When they speak in another “voice” they mean them. They mean themselves. I don’t believe in the other voice. Which is a far cry from Amos who vomited out his thoughts for all to read and see and then compare it to Ecclesiasticus, whoever he was.

You can see the whole world dissolve about you as I write and I wouldn’t be so trite as to pretend what I say is as petty as that rhyme. I mean: It’s real. We are dying.

Even this screed isn’t anything more than something to be embarrassedly forgotten. Nothing is real.

When I wake up in the morning I will think about my jobs for the day and how to bring home the pay, the Mrs, my kids, all the other things close to my heart and how much I need to keep in good at work and not step out of line and make sure my time is accounted for.

Nothing else matters.

I’m just not sure whether life amounts to this. I don’t think in terms of alphas and betas and sluts or what have you. I really don’t. There’s not a whole lot of “I” when people write. I mean I as in introspective I. Analog “I”, whatever Jaynes meant by that.

I’m really quite confused about the meaning of anything and have nothing more to profer than doubt. Furthermore I think those in doubt should keep their mouths shut.

But, because they don’t I write.

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