(Listened to "Shine On" while writing)
Each sentence is a string, either constraining you to the floor or rescuing you from your abyss. With each chosen word, the writer hopes to sculpt the readers perspective. Further and further we leave that Platonic place that existed between the title and the first letter of that first sentence. Aggressively or seductively, lovingly or complacently, the writer hopes to lure you into their reality tunnel. Its easier to not dwell on the magnitude of it all.
The written word when written well is magic. Words are magic. A well selected assemblage of symbols can give the creator immortality. Or at least the kind that brings ambitious young domesticated primates peace at night who would do well not to read Ozymandias. I am one of these foolish ambitious young domesticated primates and so I enjoy reading the works of other such monkeys. It is the least I can do, playing my tragic part in the prolonging of these dead primates futile dreams of immortality by assimilating their ideas into my own ocean of synaptic connections.
The human experience is such an absurdly beautiful tragedy. We spin on this orb through the Void knowing we will die, living in almost a perpetual state of fear with brief but orgiastic glimpses of the divine, all while we pretend we understand our plight, sporting a mask of maturity, understanding, and control. Born into a cult we seemingly cannot escape amongst a psychotic collection of cults, we think ours the best. Murcia!
Other than sex, sports, and the rare illuminating conversation, my favorite way to ignore the absurd around me is talking with these demimortals. Lately, its been Robert Anton Wilson. I haven't enjoyed another primates symbol collection this much since Nietzsche. This primate's sense of scope and humor mirror what I hope my own will be. I find it no coincidence but rather synchronicity that he too, amongst many other dead primates who enjoyed writing, started his consciousness expanding perspective with peyote (Huxley, Shulgin, Leary). I hope one day I'll be able to try those the little black buttons.
The written word's significance is dissolving in our current generation. Many disagree and I understand that, but here is how I see it. The most noble purpose I can think of as to why a writer writes is to pass along an idea. Hopefully an idea that benefits the majority of unconscious slave monkeys robotically reacting to life. Most of these slave apes don't fucking read. You can see the dilemma.
I'm not trying to write a manifesto or a magnum opus, but I think a new perspective on how best to spread good ideas is required for the ambitious domesticated primate. I'm worried about nothing though, maybe nine people will read this, and thats okay. I just like writing.
*If you're part of the 50% of American's who'll read more than 0 books this year, check out "Prometheus Rising" by Robert Anton Wilson.