Random Boo

A sphere of cheese illuminates the darkness of night as the piercing beams of dreams of light stab the sky like an invasion of glittering monster thingies with the waving things and err, whatever. “What time is it?” said the cat in a box whose survival had just become that little less-questionable. Suddenly, or a little time after suddenly, the sun fell off the sky, and the worms took over.
I hate people; I hate people that leave the cap of the toothpaste thus leaving it to go hard. I hate people that tie the plug chain around the tap fingers. I hate people that say things like “I tell it as it is” or “whatever” whilst attempting to create a double-u sign with their hands. I hate people that re-use teabags. I hate people that shop in their pyjamas. I hate it when people use Metaphysics to assist them in labelling their beliefs as scientific theory. Metaphysics will never be regarded as a true field of science, as Metaphysics appears to be nothing  more than a very large bucket, for idiots to vomit their views into, with little, if any, requirement to scientifically justify their incoherent dribble. Thus, I’m leaving you Metaphysics, it’s not you, it’s me. (Meaning it is ‘all’ you, you bigoted hermit)

“I have something you want” she said, “I don’t know what it is you have” he said, “I know” she said, “That’s why you want it.”

Wink wink nudge nudge, kiss kiss bang bang! The natural drug, that is, and every concept of, what is, and held by you as, enjoyment, is, forever being spoilt. Satisfaction is a cycle of surging boundaries that ultimately renders your present fulfilment in swift demise.  The value of money, like your value of anything, is relative, and thus, immaterial and irrelevant to the structure of your overall ‘happiness’.  You think tomorrow, you will be happy? Well sorry; but you’re as likely to see that tomorrow, as you are as likely to see the Loch Ness monster milking a rocking horse. Don’t stare at him though, you might die, then again, don’t worry about it, you’ll die either way.
Happiness is an addiction that can’t be fulfilled, sure, you can be ‘happier’, but any child with an imaginary pocket full of chocolate stars, can tell you that nothing is great, if something is greater!

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. He sort of smiled, and I could tell that he was genuinely pleased with my response. I didn’t actually have a clue what it was that he was trying to say, but in my years as a person, I’ve learned that people prefer the response “yes” to the response “no”

From the Big Bang to Quantum Physics, all the consciousnesses in all of times and spaces, are one! Can you not feel it? No? It’s broken, like a dead cat, a dead cat late for tea, I might add, I might not. Independence is the key here, six and a half billion people are trapped here, and you’re alone? The connection is jam bread; you killed it! You desired this and now you desire that. Desire is a paradox; you desire the option you didn’t take, regardless of what option you did? But, do you want to be connected anyway? I’m a bad person; I’m self-centred, and thus have little, if any, interest in the world that, from my position in space and time, does not exist. Alas, people as generalized, tend to willingly follow, in believing, what they believe, should be believed. The problem is society has progressed no further than the days of the witch hunts in the sixteenth century, like a mob in search of Frankenstein’s monster. A person has a mind, but a mob doesn’t. Home sweet home is like a dentist’s waiting room, Death is just eating his breakfast, climb out the bathroom window! Time is elusive. I, us, you, them, is best ignored, a swing is made for swinging, but don’t expect to be pushed.

He didn’t look happy.
I have stuff to worry about, he said.
He then furrowed his eyebrows.
Sh*t, he said. Fuck*ng sh*t.
This went on for a while. And then:
Oh no, he said. Oh no!
What? I said.
Sh*t! he said.
He was really into it.

So I was hula hooping naked whilst singing Surfin Bird by The Trashmen, just like I do every Sunday morning, when a woman started staring at me from across the street. Seriously, she just stared for a good 10 minutes, with a face like a bulldog licking p*ss of a nettle. Why do people have to be so weird? When children are young, they learn what it means to be inside or outside of their home. Food can be inside or outside of the oven. Dogs can be inside or outside of their kennels. It occurs to them that “inside” and “outside” are terms with wide applicability. So what is outside the universe? There are monsters, hungry monsters, which eat little children who ask too many questions. And rightly so, children are horridly spoilt now, new car, caviar, what did I get as a child? Chicken pox is all I can recall.

My religion says you have to conclude that your own ability to conclude things is faulty, she said.
That’s the only way any of it makes any sense.
I conclude that your religion is faulty, he said.
She concluded that too, but she concluded that her conclusion was false.
So you believe in it too? she said.

In the words of I, even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day…

Time, and the very existence of everything that is the human concept of reality, is the measurement of what is potentially, immeasurably potential.  Emotions, fear, hate, pain, joy, love, and so on, are conceived to sustain the organism’s existence, and are required to develop what is better known as ‘experience’.  Consciousness is the ability to observe what you think is reality. We’re intimately hooked into the very existence of reality, without observation there would just be, this, expanding superposition of possibilities, with nothing definite ever actually happening.  Every attempt spent on studying particles beyond a certain level, is flawed by the very act of studying. There is no one electron; an electron or any elementary particle exists only in relationship to other particles, or even the universe at large. This means that deeply enough, when you dive down into the nature of matter, everything we know about the everyday world dissolves. There are no objects any more, there are only relationships. There is no locality anymore; there is no time anymore. The more you look at something in detail and what we think of as solid matter, the less solid it begins to look.
The only realities we know are the ones our brain manufactures. A brain receives millions of signals every minute, and we organize them into holograms which we project outside ourselves and label reality. Everything you smell, taste, feel, and see, are simply electrical signals interoperated by your brain. However, it is this very said ‘hologram’ that creates what is, although not, essentially real; what you see as existence, is so because you observe it as, what is, existent. The fabricated reality is reality because you defined the observation that you have presented yourself with. A spatula has the ‘potential’ to turn into a pink elephant, it doesn’t because of consciousness and its perceived concept of the reality it is presented and is collectively responsible for. So, more interestingly, what is then the raison d’être of our consciousness? Is sustaining the existence of what is existence to us the meaning of life?

The mind is eternal, infinite, and spiritually potential. Unlike the encompassing body, it exists outside space and time. The body is not eternal and infinite, but instead decays and is webbed into the delusional reality matrix of now and here.
My reflection incarcerates me, envelopes me in a nauseating consciousness. Why? It nauseates me because I’m no longer free; I’m no longer infinite. Infinite means having no limits, and having no limits means beginning and ending nowhere, encompassing everything everywhere always. Therefore, from the point of view of an infinite being, nothing exists but it; it is totally, absolutely, and unconditionally everything and all that there is. To an un-reflected me, there are no others, not even the concept ‘others’. No ‘me’, no ‘you’, no ‘we’ no ‘they’ no ‘this’, no ‘that’, no ‘these’, no ‘those’. There is only ‘I’. In the entire Universe, there is only one identity, and it is ‘I’. It is that, no matter how many things may seem to you to exist, from the point of view of an infinite me, there exists only one thing, in only one place, at only one time, and all of that is and always is wholly itself, I.
By definition, I is mind and mind encompasses, or includes, or is, everything that there is, and therefore there exists — there can exist — no thing, no where, and no when, which it is not. Whatever is, it is. That is what being infinite is; living in the mind, means: Having no limits of any kind. No beginning and no end, no fixed centre and no circumference. No boundaries of any kind, neither in time nor in space, or in any other dimension; no specific form, either physical or conceptual, no name and no shape.
In order to make proper use of a mirror, a viewer must be able to distinguish himself or herself from everything else reflected in the glass, not to mention from the glass itself, and the room in which it is located, and the time and the space in which the reflection is occurring. It’s this reality that troubles me, bounds and limits me to self. I become no longer infinite; I’m dying.

There are one hundred and twenty five billion galaxies in the universe, each containing over a hundred billion stars spiralling aimlessly. It is here on one of these stars the floating corpse of a planet labelled Earth is staged; infected with over six and a half billion bewildered glorified monkeys. Every orbit of the star this godforsaken rock completes the monkeys run! Vomiting incoherent dribble pointlessly into cellular phones and purchasing high definition televisions, so they can observe other monkeys perform this pointless ritual of socializing. Obtaining bigger, faster, louder vehicles and bigger greater houses in the hope of attracting a mate, so they can spawn additional monkeys like bacteria and infest further still! On and on like a never ending circus performing, always performing, meaninglessly. This irrational, illogical behaviour is madness!
Yet despite this madness being apparent they chose to ignore. Their innate morals are inherited and their justice system dogmatic. They criticize law and complain unconstructively then follow regardless. They conceive concepts like evil to label sly motives and natural obstructionism. They put their faith in the penning of past and claim inconsistencies the work of a devil.  They claim a dice throw justifies a saint. They claim to be righteous and virtuously good, despite an egotistic anticipation of contentment galore. Then they condemn a theorist and start a never-ending war.

Look here upon this society of thespians, cultivated by reciprocal delusion, matured by observational amendment. My adolescence pillaged recklessly to state void of compassion. What is love, if love be irrevocably blind? This catharsis; this adulterated liberation, manifestly not blind nor gratifying neither. Alas love a deficient concept.  What is this perpetual adoring; why this pestilent parasite? A mutual quintessence presents not. My sterile disposition inept; how can one adore whilst not adored? What motive is spent upon this desolate stage? I loathe beauty, I detest company; I despise what I grasp not. This self-solidarity of solitude is my narcotic ecstasy in this theatre of belligerent bastards; this congregation of arrogant pretentious cretins. What be love but a delusional comfort. What be life but a dawdling demise. What be thou, the god; recipient of my vomited discourse? A nonentity you be but a fictitious token.

Alone I am perched upon my rigid chair within my frigid chamber. It’s dark and gloomy, deeply obscured by inky shadows devouring the warmth, devouring the very soul, devouring the very existence of the room. Only the echoing pulsation of a clock drumming its piecing rhythm remains. This is my chamber, this is my life. I find myself lost in a pointless void, with neither reason nor benefit to persevere life. What be the purpose in such a life I am burdened with, hampered, trapped in the restraining chain of anxiety that be the very existence of I? I’m a talent-less fool with nothing but a dream I can not translate, nothing but a concept of life I can not understand, like an inkless pen I stand here inanimate, in the shadow of my own dream, a nonentity. With all my sins and foul judgements, I am not disorientated, adrift, or astray, I am lost. Everyday this tormenting reminiscence tickles my throat, a sort of displacing and desiccated feel that submits me to sensations of sickness. I can’t even look myself in the mirror anymore without diverse feelings of defeatism and loathing as my mind becomes segregated from me. I seem to have washed my hands of myself in an attempt to rid myself of hurt and hate, I am not me, and I will never want to be.  I welcome the utopia of death, I desire the worlds end. I hate the human species, no compassion; I have no sympathy for them at all. They have overstayed their welcome. They are corrupted with greed like lust and gluttony. The mentality of Hitler, the self-discipline of Roscoe Arbuckle, and about as useful to the world as Graham Norton, This is not madness, this is simply observation.

An epiphany has dawned, forgive my previous haste towards the aforementioned sin, I am no sinner, how can I be? It’s fictional like evil be just opinion. I feel a self disrepute, but how can I be shameful of particular reminiscences when only I have knowledge of them. Who is judging me?
However, innate personality also nonexistent therefore said memories is me, I am the product of my upbringing. One should then embrace these sin labelled memories as token. Life is no test!
As contradictory as the following statement may sound I insure you it is not. You must realize that there is no rabbit hole. The meaning of life is the desire of life. Emotional obstructionism is the human sphere, a nucleus manipulating the pulses of the self renders our one desire into a multifaceted intricate imagination of aspiration however utterly insignificant, and all the splendour is this bio-contraption simply desires life, nothing more. I am no sinner.

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible
Blackness melded with shades inexpressible
The infinite infinite compressed into nought
Measured only by sight and thought
Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme
The rhythm of life, the rhythm of time