I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here or anywhere.
Complaints: it's too hot too cold too muggy too old.
Whine: it's just not fair.
Conclude: it's just my bum luck.
Bum.
I think perspective, or rather the realization of other's, is what gets me in trouble
every
single
day
Cause I act like I care. I act like it matters. I act like
what others think effects me but it doesn't doesn't doesn't in the smallest teeny tiniest of ways.
If I perceive your hatred of me then it effects me. I make amendments to my rules of engagement based on the enemy. I cajole or seeth or just plain ignore. I plead or sugarcoat or knee you in the balls. Depends, but the bill passes through the legislature up in my head and veto or no it's going into effect - this is a dictatorship. In my head. In my head there are millions of citizen-synapses firing firing firing at eachother. Interacting. Communing. Building societies in my head. Republican synapses and Democratic synapses and Libertarian ones. My eyeballs hurt. But deep down in the core, somewhere far away in a corner of the universe I like to call my cerebral cortex, there is the mother-synapse.. big and fat and all ganglious and firing off direct orders, making direct decisions, calling the big shots. The dictator mother-brain-synapse that says:
I hate you too
But if I fail to perceive any sense of your seething hatred for me then there is no debate, there are no enactments, there isn't a single choice or decision or amendment to my daily life. I go about in a fog - hazy, misty, semi-lucid, fighting.. fighting.. - but not a single clue enters the building. The mother-synapse sleeps tongiht. No decisions to make. I don't know you hate me.
So I make it up anyway. You must hate me. Change perspective. Create something. You don't like me because of what I said about what you did to you know who.. of course. It makes complete sense. No wonder you didn't call. No wonder you didn't write. No wonder. No wonder.NoWonder.
So I make it up. You hate me I hate you he hates me we hate eachother. Makes perfect sense. 1 + 1 = 2 and 2 + 2 = 4 and I hate you.
Right?
Right?
So I'll make my mind up about things using this roadmap that's based on a drawing by a child from memory who wandered the landscape last year. In the dark. The kid is always in the damn dark. It's always dark where I get my roadmaps from and they don't make any sense at all. Not one iota. So what do you do? You make it up as you go. You must hate me.
I'd like to think it's choice, in the end.. just that it's not being made - not being actively choosen. The choice is choosing me and I'm choosing it because it's there in front of me.
Can you make the choice not in front of you?
But more importantly - of utmost importance, in fact - is my last question for the day:
Do choices take extreme meditation? Does perspective change because you employ a zen-like concentration or does it change because you stop worrying about it? Do perspectives turn about from intense worship of the idea or from a point-like decision to effect a difference?
How powerful is my perspective. How powerful is my control over it. How much, in the end, does it matter?
Choice or Consequence?
Why do people talk to me with their little voices like I'm wasting my time?