Trillions of your neural cells clap hands in inter-hemispheric coordination.
Emerge, Corpus Callosum!
A dead-again solipsist, I re-incarnate from one orphan body to another.
In and out, just like that…
At my own funeral I stand burying my own mind with my own body.
But who mourns for thee, Consciousness?
not even your own Self.
If still unsure how to distinguish between what is and what isn’t,
Go rob a stone.
Abhorring chaos, I order all that isn’t into patterns.
Seeing meaning where none exists,
I take offense to it
And I, then, defend against it!
Makes sense… all by itself.
- What does?
Meaning does you.
Meaning is a shovel.
For excavating what is from the abyss of what isn’t.
Worship the abyss, not the shovel you fill it up with.
Overriding the self-preservation dictum of biology,
You reread Camus’ Sisyphus:
Meaning is a boulder.
You - the pusher.
Untying hopelessly knotted I-pod earphone cords,
You take off the sound and suddenly notice how flat vision is.
Vision is always two-dimensional,
It just seems 3D because of sound.
Don’t believe the dimensionality of everything you're reading:
It’s all meaningless surface!
Sound logic sounds good
but it’s still noise.
Can you hear it?
Tea ceremony’s got nothing to do with tea and everything with ceremony.
Tea is just a pre-text to empty the mind’s cup.
What's the post-text?
Apologize to the very stereotype you have turned yourself into:
You are not the you that you think you are.
That you is already so passé.
All this strikes you as meaningless drivel?
Already got a day's worth of meaning?
Bummer: I got nothing to push...
Let’s have tea then!
pavel, again spilled a cup of self