[ti]fire[/ti]the forest is on fire and it's nobody's fault (but mine)
Jun 13, 2018 18:07:36 GMT
marduk, feltzens, and 2 more like this
Post by Caylus Ark on Jun 13, 2018 18:07:36 GMT
more clever than a pile of kittens consulting a cream pie
but stupider than the actual pie itself:
that's what my life is like.
It is trying to teach me, I know, but then it gets distracted and starts eating pie and I end up
with half-baked plans - I manage to occupy wildlife with puns and sneak away before they remember to eat me alive.
But why do I keep ending up back in the woods night after night?
I feel this is probably the reason my friends don't talk to me anymore.
It's something we don't talk about: the woods, the dark passengers that live in the woods,
the asylum in the woods that is haunted, and lastly my secret spot in the woods. We do not talk about any of that - and did I mention the bears? I wanted to tell you the great efforts we expend to avoid talking about them.
I don't know why it almost seems like my friends think I am something frightening, and I will eat them myself?
It is of course utter nonsense. While I could see myself jumping out into a dark clearing dressed like a werewolf, I would only eat them if they weren't amused by me.
Sometimes I think they want to say something but it's just
a grab-bag alphabet the ghosts assemble when they are feeling crass
and you think you're talking to a spirit but it's just that other voice in your head telling you how funny it is that you talk to yourself.
few places to go...
another park in a quiet town, just the new thing I needed.
another cool kid with a pet project wants to come play video games
they thought I was cute and then discovered that I was radioactive
and jumped out the window like a basketball swinging itself out of a hoop. eventually they melt into the forest and become one with the shadows because there is no other way to leave other than through the woods. perhaps that's another reason no one comes by.
I know I glow because I am unironically nuclear, but it's not cancer that depresses me,
what depresses me is that they want to gently imply it is offensive that I consider myself a one-man cancer-circus solo-act.
they do not find it funny and say that I have a bad laugh reflex because I'm twisted, but they don't live with bears in the woods and they aren't
radioactive either.
I was like,
so what?
So what if I live in a shack and people think I am a bear?
I made up my own radio with tunes; I hummed.
My voice is terrible but I serenade the sticks and entertain the buzzards who think I'm a show.
I LARP a hero but I am fine to be a fool at the end of the masquerade.
I'm starting to think that the local neighborhood bears are going to pick up on my humor soon and it's funny on its own to keep a bear laughing, it seems like a chain reaction that could be self-sustaining for at least a few hours before fizzling out.
It's me and all my pretend friends,
the ones that seem real until you tell them you are real too, too real for the circus and too strange for the ballroom dancers.
And some friends that seem to be imaginary but somehow manage to be the most reliable of all.
It's something we don't talk about because the local gardeners don't like it when leaves fall from trees and sit dead on the ground
for too long. It calls into mind all the wrong kinds of questions the wrong sorts of people might think to ask. And if they did, somebody might have to answer.
Maybe.
I think it's weird that they all stand in a circle chanting while they sweep because they seem sort of depressed about it.
I was going to tell them that death is just fall into a fractal before you decide whether you still want to be created,
it's the window with a thousand doors that go on opening and shutting one another and locking us in and others out like a fish splashing wildly on a keyboard.
People are like fish when their worlds end but they wouldn't have to be so undignified if they just took a deep breath and released it or better yet started laughing.
By the time I realize I could have told these sullen leave scrapers to chill the fuck out, I've already had a long conversation with myself about it and dragging them back into the forest with me is only fun for me.
I think I scared the whole town away,
So eventually I just stopped talking and got on with my circus of unnamable emotions that have formed a local coalition after recently becoming sentient.
Then they fucked off with all my feelings, and I got really bored because without my feelings drama was excruciatingly boring so I stopped doing puppet shows for the rats...
I recently bought some legos, not so that I would have something to build, but so that I'd have something which I could take apart block by block after I'd successfully made it into nothing. I basically race into making it the most faithful rendition possible which of course gets better and less thoughtful every time it happens. Soon I won't even have to build anything before I can start taking it apart and then I will be finished before I start. I will be a zen master and I will sit with bears as they get hungry and eat my legs. I'm pretty sure I'm punny enough to distract them before they eat me significantly.
My imaginary friends called this whole line of thought and my general outlook on life "depressing," but I'm pretty sure their sense of humor is shit.
Then again, sometimes I'm not sure whether people are waiting for me to laugh at their punchline or not...
For example at the gas station a local homeless man asked to borrow my lighter. But before using it, he warned me "to be careful playing with fire". He then proceeded to unearth a forgotten dead leaf from the sidewalk and burn it while looking very intently at me, as if he was trying to show me something profound. If I had real friends they'd probably just tell me to forget about that whacko, but he seemed sane to me and that's probably why all my friends are gone.
That night when I tried to sleep I saw a shadow slosh through from my wooden floorboards onto a puddle until it became glittery and I was intruiged enough to learn it was oil.
I remembered the homeless guy telling me to be careful about not playing with fire, but all I remember is him focusing on nothing but the fire so I think the "not" part was sort of eclipsed in the spirit of it all. I don't think I meant to set the oil puddle on fire, but it seemed to toss itself like a lit match before I even knew what was happening. Then there was smoke and it was all blazing and I became an animal that fled wildly into the chill frost of the woods which wouldn't last because soon the fire would dash from the shack and do backflips across the brush and all the dead leaves where I live it would light as I don't sweep. Soon the flame was everywhere and I surrendered to death by burning with only slightly uncomfortable expectancy. It never happened. It's like the flames were my own blood or something but instead of running through my body I ran through theirs.
So I ran into a labyrinth of fire where I couldn't see anything but light. Time seemed to stop. There were no bears. There weren't even any fireflies or moths to enjoy the night which had become a torch. I had knocked the torch over and I couldn't remember whether I had meant to or not. Surely I had not meant for this to happen and all this fire but I couldn't say that I had an alibi.
It's like one of those mistakes that you realized was a whole life in the making. And at the center of fate as you are there and you aren't burning and you aren't sure whether you're condemnable or not, but when you wake up again there will be nothing left to condemn. You'd merely forgotten that you'd been a star waiting for the other stars to wake up with you. One day, we will play universe. So until then...
I dabbled as a connoisseur living out fates that amuse my sphere’s architecture.
a quazer slowly scatters.
My consciousness is a fractal and I open the book of the forest fire in godmode but wherever I take a lighter away from the unfortunate event a candle grows in its place and gets knocked over. I try getting rid of the book of matches but when I do there is an ornately enscribed lanturn that seems dodge efforts at being moved by collapsing my grabbing into a time before reaching the lamp. The mistake that created me turned into a singularity and that’s when I realized the homeless man knew it would happen. And I knew he knew because I was the butterfly the sea and the wave in the process of making mistake after beautiful mistake.
A nebula wiggles like a tadbole on my plasma.
Something tells me that its time to go make another mistake but wait just a little longer. Just a little bit...
It occurs to me that the hindsight of a god is in letting mistakes exist. Another insight perfectly preserved for a consciousness that can no longer make use of it. Being a star was the most terrible irony of all. It was like having a mind that could wrap itself inside the core of earth despite light years of separation from the milky way. Going there was just like falling asleep at the same time as you watched all the stories of lives that were singularities of their own system.
And with new infinities come new universes. I wanted to tell them when they hurt that each painful experience is the scaffolding of an unlimited architecture. The only proximity is that which we choose to preserve, sophia told the star. Another insight for an immobile object to try and convey telepathically to a lifeform that hadnt spoken with wisdom since the language of the birds was a nursery rhyme.
(Fe fi fo fum)
but stupider than the actual pie itself:
that's what my life is like.
It is trying to teach me, I know, but then it gets distracted and starts eating pie and I end up
with half-baked plans - I manage to occupy wildlife with puns and sneak away before they remember to eat me alive.
But why do I keep ending up back in the woods night after night?
I feel this is probably the reason my friends don't talk to me anymore.
It's something we don't talk about: the woods, the dark passengers that live in the woods,
the asylum in the woods that is haunted, and lastly my secret spot in the woods. We do not talk about any of that - and did I mention the bears? I wanted to tell you the great efforts we expend to avoid talking about them.
I don't know why it almost seems like my friends think I am something frightening, and I will eat them myself?
It is of course utter nonsense. While I could see myself jumping out into a dark clearing dressed like a werewolf, I would only eat them if they weren't amused by me.
Sometimes I think they want to say something but it's just
a grab-bag alphabet the ghosts assemble when they are feeling crass
and you think you're talking to a spirit but it's just that other voice in your head telling you how funny it is that you talk to yourself.
few places to go...
another park in a quiet town, just the new thing I needed.
another cool kid with a pet project wants to come play video games
they thought I was cute and then discovered that I was radioactive
and jumped out the window like a basketball swinging itself out of a hoop. eventually they melt into the forest and become one with the shadows because there is no other way to leave other than through the woods. perhaps that's another reason no one comes by.
I know I glow because I am unironically nuclear, but it's not cancer that depresses me,
what depresses me is that they want to gently imply it is offensive that I consider myself a one-man cancer-circus solo-act.
they do not find it funny and say that I have a bad laugh reflex because I'm twisted, but they don't live with bears in the woods and they aren't
radioactive either.
I was like,
so what?
So what if I live in a shack and people think I am a bear?
I made up my own radio with tunes; I hummed.
My voice is terrible but I serenade the sticks and entertain the buzzards who think I'm a show.
I LARP a hero but I am fine to be a fool at the end of the masquerade.
I'm starting to think that the local neighborhood bears are going to pick up on my humor soon and it's funny on its own to keep a bear laughing, it seems like a chain reaction that could be self-sustaining for at least a few hours before fizzling out.
It's me and all my pretend friends,
the ones that seem real until you tell them you are real too, too real for the circus and too strange for the ballroom dancers.
And some friends that seem to be imaginary but somehow manage to be the most reliable of all.
It's something we don't talk about because the local gardeners don't like it when leaves fall from trees and sit dead on the ground
for too long. It calls into mind all the wrong kinds of questions the wrong sorts of people might think to ask. And if they did, somebody might have to answer.
Maybe.
I think it's weird that they all stand in a circle chanting while they sweep because they seem sort of depressed about it.
I was going to tell them that death is just fall into a fractal before you decide whether you still want to be created,
it's the window with a thousand doors that go on opening and shutting one another and locking us in and others out like a fish splashing wildly on a keyboard.
People are like fish when their worlds end but they wouldn't have to be so undignified if they just took a deep breath and released it or better yet started laughing.
By the time I realize I could have told these sullen leave scrapers to chill the fuck out, I've already had a long conversation with myself about it and dragging them back into the forest with me is only fun for me.
I think I scared the whole town away,
So eventually I just stopped talking and got on with my circus of unnamable emotions that have formed a local coalition after recently becoming sentient.
Then they fucked off with all my feelings, and I got really bored because without my feelings drama was excruciatingly boring so I stopped doing puppet shows for the rats...
I recently bought some legos, not so that I would have something to build, but so that I'd have something which I could take apart block by block after I'd successfully made it into nothing. I basically race into making it the most faithful rendition possible which of course gets better and less thoughtful every time it happens. Soon I won't even have to build anything before I can start taking it apart and then I will be finished before I start. I will be a zen master and I will sit with bears as they get hungry and eat my legs. I'm pretty sure I'm punny enough to distract them before they eat me significantly.
My imaginary friends called this whole line of thought and my general outlook on life "depressing," but I'm pretty sure their sense of humor is shit.
Then again, sometimes I'm not sure whether people are waiting for me to laugh at their punchline or not...
For example at the gas station a local homeless man asked to borrow my lighter. But before using it, he warned me "to be careful playing with fire". He then proceeded to unearth a forgotten dead leaf from the sidewalk and burn it while looking very intently at me, as if he was trying to show me something profound. If I had real friends they'd probably just tell me to forget about that whacko, but he seemed sane to me and that's probably why all my friends are gone.
That night when I tried to sleep I saw a shadow slosh through from my wooden floorboards onto a puddle until it became glittery and I was intruiged enough to learn it was oil.
I remembered the homeless guy telling me to be careful about not playing with fire, but all I remember is him focusing on nothing but the fire so I think the "not" part was sort of eclipsed in the spirit of it all. I don't think I meant to set the oil puddle on fire, but it seemed to toss itself like a lit match before I even knew what was happening. Then there was smoke and it was all blazing and I became an animal that fled wildly into the chill frost of the woods which wouldn't last because soon the fire would dash from the shack and do backflips across the brush and all the dead leaves where I live it would light as I don't sweep. Soon the flame was everywhere and I surrendered to death by burning with only slightly uncomfortable expectancy. It never happened. It's like the flames were my own blood or something but instead of running through my body I ran through theirs.
So I ran into a labyrinth of fire where I couldn't see anything but light. Time seemed to stop. There were no bears. There weren't even any fireflies or moths to enjoy the night which had become a torch. I had knocked the torch over and I couldn't remember whether I had meant to or not. Surely I had not meant for this to happen and all this fire but I couldn't say that I had an alibi.
It's like one of those mistakes that you realized was a whole life in the making. And at the center of fate as you are there and you aren't burning and you aren't sure whether you're condemnable or not, but when you wake up again there will be nothing left to condemn. You'd merely forgotten that you'd been a star waiting for the other stars to wake up with you. One day, we will play universe. So until then...
I dabbled as a connoisseur living out fates that amuse my sphere’s architecture.
a quazer slowly scatters.
My consciousness is a fractal and I open the book of the forest fire in godmode but wherever I take a lighter away from the unfortunate event a candle grows in its place and gets knocked over. I try getting rid of the book of matches but when I do there is an ornately enscribed lanturn that seems dodge efforts at being moved by collapsing my grabbing into a time before reaching the lamp. The mistake that created me turned into a singularity and that’s when I realized the homeless man knew it would happen. And I knew he knew because I was the butterfly the sea and the wave in the process of making mistake after beautiful mistake.
A nebula wiggles like a tadbole on my plasma.
Something tells me that its time to go make another mistake but wait just a little longer. Just a little bit...
It occurs to me that the hindsight of a god is in letting mistakes exist. Another insight perfectly preserved for a consciousness that can no longer make use of it. Being a star was the most terrible irony of all. It was like having a mind that could wrap itself inside the core of earth despite light years of separation from the milky way. Going there was just like falling asleep at the same time as you watched all the stories of lives that were singularities of their own system.
And with new infinities come new universes. I wanted to tell them when they hurt that each painful experience is the scaffolding of an unlimited architecture. The only proximity is that which we choose to preserve, sophia told the star. Another insight for an immobile object to try and convey telepathically to a lifeform that hadnt spoken with wisdom since the language of the birds was a nursery rhyme.
(Fe fi fo fum)
