She said what?

If I weren’t who I was that other time, I’d be who I am now. Fuck my problems. I hate them myself. I like my penis, but if it just keeps distracting me, I’ll have to go without touching it. For, like, a whole day. If we go in further than that, we’ll end up in that cave of brown stones, dripping with life. When you let go, you become the algae that cling to the sores. When you let it go, you become the one that killed you so horribly. I’m just here, starting over from the green and brown plants that covered the ground where we played with plastic toys. And we weren’t acting out our revenge; we weren’t striving to make right the wrong that was done to us. We played to play. Fuck the underlying cultural subtext. It’s to play for playing. We remember, sometimes, that we hold within our tongues the contradiction that we’ve always been looking for, but only when we don’t speak. Or speak only in ways scientifically verifiable. Looking back to what we were striving for, we put away the things of man and become again a childish thing. You should see by now (not to judge, just to see) that you are the one that killed yourself. I am the one that killed myself. I killed you. Forgive me, you killed me. Forgetting this, remember the tip of your penis when it was sexless – only itself, devoid of any purpose except the memory of its own moment. The great roshi saw that to cut off the finger was sometimes necessary to gain enlightenment. The great roshi saw that it was generally better to end with a joke, as the joke was the same as the severing of the finger – when the time was right. When we played on the banks of valley grass, a green stream flowing this to that, both better than the one that lay before, no different. This. Is. Where. You. Live. You. Are. Only. Alive. Right. Here. The now and the better less. The now and the better more. Get the fucking cup of coffee right the fuck now. I’ll be here when you get back. Words do not exist. Existence is hidden within the womb of engorged words. Wittgenstein’s critique of language is the same as Nietzsche’s, only more developed. Existence is joy hiding from itself in order that it might be surprised when it stumbles upon itself again. I’m ready to be surprised again. Do not critique the demons of the past, stop hating them, they are we, and when we find ourselves in delight’s mirror, the surprise is sprung and it was so more than fucking worth it. No worries. No worries. Ever. No more despair. There is no despair. Despair is only a word and words have no meaning save the burst of flavor that I promised myself in the beer commercials that we watched when the house was asleep and you were alone. What does it mean? It means that we are alive here and the sex dreams where the best that there is, because there is only the joy and joy can only be a surprise. Surprise! It’s your birthday and the boy that they compared us to was the same as us. The exact same. You are the fallen one and the raised one. Hate yourself because hate is only a word wrapped in surprise. Love yourself because love is only the purity of the joy, waiting to be surprised. All of it is a surprise. All of it is an accident. All of it is forgetting and then remembering again. Remember the whole of existence. Remember yourself in the grass, crawling like a bug through the dewy green river to the butter-colored sunrise and being surprised that delight is an endless loop of joy. I am myself. I am the pirate. I am the victim. I am the cowboy. I am the Indian. I am the tomahawk. I am the Winchester. Remember this. Remember the shout and the quiet. Remember that there is no change. Remember that all is endless change. Remember that it’s all the same thing. Remember that you are everything. Remember that you’re okay with being the only thing that matters. Remember that you’re nothing but a stream of nothings. And, above all, remember the porn.