Sentenced

I am trying something old, old in the futility of it, old in the fugitivity i find myself in—uninterested in writing as i know—knew—it, in thinking the way i think (thought), in wondering (thought, again)—i have become old in my habits and all freshness has been deodorized by foreowned wisdom—can you stop saying “i” so much? gaaaahhhh!—so here me is, my morning execution, a Yogaisque endeavour this for my memory, my pattern, the stiffness of my brain—not to break it as much as loosen it, simplify the judging (judged—too late!) part of my head that creates in the extreme of grandiosity or nothingness and not at all, and what does it mean all of this you ask and I will tell you—will not—once I figure out myself through the course of all this because somewhere along the way I know I will rationalize all of it—that it will add up to something and here’s what it will add up to, in a word: lightening; yeah, I guess the unencumbering that follows the encumering of this (which begs the question, what is this?) is enough in itself—how we exert ourselves to feel good at the end of things, instead of doing things with ease—moving from tension to satisfaction through the straight line of expectation: crooked, so crooked, humans—and at this moment I want to call myself a dick just to show how self-aware I am, so typical of self-awareness to mock itself in order to fuel itself—and so I keep spiralling into my own awareness induced delusions and what are delusions but repressed madnesses, the wet dreams of the mind—and that is how we all disappear up our own assoles—looks like this is adding up to something, but how do you even know—are words the measure? what qualifies as completion (quantification) , as meaning? and what, the end? does the end of a piece mean the end of what I have to say about it or is it the beginning of the rest of Your life or even better, the middle of each other’s?—that’s what most of these are: they are middle pieces and it relieves me from the dead-ended attempt to reach for an end when, where there is none, and speaking of the end, the time’s come to bring this one to one because I have no idea where to go from here, but no, I am kidding, I do, I always do (kid and know) and I can tell you that, because isn’t that the whole point, my fooling you, and you being fooled, and we do this over and over and I pretend to fool you and you pretend to be fooled and we both know the foolishness in it and yet we keep going—we laugh—glory glory! the fooler and the fooled, foolery, foolhardy—all but foolproof because foolproof is such a bleak blue bum basic-bitch way to go about existing—Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; Fool me a million times, and we are in love; and if I could just go off on a questionable tangent here and ask: did you see the black dot or the white paper? and if I could ask myself, “is this essay the black dot amidst the white paper that’s the rest of this blog or is it a white paper amidst the black dot that is the rest of this blog or did you just not find a picture to upload and you now need to make up shit to justify the one you did, you know, like having children,” anyway (wait, what?) back to what we were talking about: if you’d like to remember, or as it’s more unfortunately known now: takeaway, anything from this, whatever this is, let it be this: that this is, wait, before that, are you still reading?—what is wrong with you?—but I suddenly have this need to to give you something to commomerate our brief alliance here, so this: this is the end of this sentence.