how many days can a day contain? time’s spread like stale cupcakes across the human devastation. youth is like a bag of sugar before you know it’s bad for you. old age is like an empty bag.
if you were to think of history this way – as all of us just bits of stale cupcakes – wouldn’t you change your life? probably not. we are mired in the mud and there are those few who step on those who are mired and the even fewer who try, however feebly, to pull some out, and the even fewer few who, knowing the universe is mud and there is no no-mud, try to find a somewhat more desolate spot, muddier perhaps, and sit there, trying not get stepped on, slapping flies, meditating on stale cupcakes.
there once was a man and his name was john and he lived in an outhouse. he had learned a nifty trick to birth bipeds through his ass and thus had given birth to an entire world of progeny in his shit below. every once in a while he’d lift his ass off the toilet seat and yell down, hey creatures i love you, and then go back to sitting. the shit creatures were very divided as to what to make of this, with some living in anticipation of the next yelling, others building little replicas that mimicked the voice and selling them, still others saying it didn’t mean anything.
and i do not say (for i do not see) that humanity is tragic or comic or doomed or wise. the human is a word and the word is this. i do not say that time is something to escape or accept. time is just the human in geometrical abstraction.
No comments:
Post a Comment