I'm trying to sift through the word salad that is my brain early in the morning. I tried to read, but a group of words kept floating upon to the top trying to get out of my think pot, trying to be noticed. I am beginning to feel that none of my thoughts are worth anything. No longer am I sitting in a void, surrounding myself in nothingness like a blanket. Feeling secure in sorrow is not enough anymore. I am letting myself fee that I contribute, but what I contribute is worth far more than any theory of relativity or cure for cancer. My contribution is that I actively contribute, with full intention, nothing.
I no longer take everything in and lie amongst the waste, the detritus of broken promises and dreams, but I repackage it and sell it at no cost to anyone around me. The worst part is, they have no idea they are buying it. I could be sharing it with everyone else...I could be bilking them of all their money.
Life imitates art, or art imitates life. Everything is reprocessed, repackages and resold anyway. Everyone is mindlessly running toward the end. We argue and prattle on, fighting for and debating and making sure we 'win' to notice that the we are the fodder for the world's churning toward the end.
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