Written by Albi Biba
He's simply lost himself in the enmity of the others presence. He's known there's no identity to be had, but had lost the desire to confide within what isn't. He always had a great ear for what wasn't said. He thought that was the best way to listen. The nothingness between the words accentuated discourse for him. We only understand things because of the silence he thought. Silence precedes essence, essence is silence. He was cognizant of the fact that every thought he's ever had has merely been a subsequent brain mechanism - that his subconscious held all his actual thoughts. His own thoughts were a perpetual distraction, an escapism not escaping from anything. No one will ever share his thoughts, and that's not what he ever wanted.
But he desperately wanted.
He thought silence merely gave connotation to sound, that everything is silence.
He thought everything was silence.
Silence isn't nothingness. Nothingness exists due to there being sound, that is reliance he thought. Our nothing is something.
But everything is nothing, so silence is nothingness, right?
Everything isn't everything. His subconscious knew that but he didn't.
"It'll never work huh?"
"What?"
"What."
"It'll never work huh?"
His friend gives him his change. He heads out. He's going to where he already is. He asks his friend what art is.
"That'll be 5.76"
Art is what it isn't. Explaining what articulating is. Art isn't based off real life, real life is based off art. It's the plane of all our thoughts, the only real thing. Art's indifference gives our world context. It encapsulates everything, even though everything is nothi-
"What?"
"What."
"That'll be 5.76"
He knew he didn't know what he wanted. He was wrong. Not about what he wanted, but wanting something as a concept. There's always gonna be something, trust him. He's gonna cry, he wants to cry but can't get the tears out. He didn't like crying because it never satisfied- the tears just didn't feel right. That person he loves. That person he loves. That person he loves. That person he loves. That perrson he loves. Thhat perrson he loves. Thhat perrson he lovves. Thhat perrson ehe lovves. Thhat nperrson ehe lovves. Athhat nperrson ehe lovves. Athhat nperrson ehe slovves.
"Would you like a receipt?"
His friend didn't have a sense of humor.
He leaves. He's going to where he is.
The light that illuminates only shows the depth of darkness. He never understood why everything has to make sense. Why his thoughts, what he says, and the things he does have to be concise. Well they weren't, so it didn't matter in the fact that it did. He thought that the binary dualist approach to the metaphysical was propagated. A binary can only exist with a 3rd, every trinity is missing it's fourth. And so on. And son. But since there is something making it exist, it doesn't. Once something relies on something it's gone. Once we find something it's lost. Once we remember it's forgotten. The dualist approach is propagated. There is no dichotomy between the physical and the metaphysical. The physical contains that of the metaphysical essence, and the metaphysical has the physical embedded. The essence proliferates in the finite, perpetuating that that has finitude. This is what he thought at least. He's not here. He never really was here.
He only listens to what people don't say.
He only remembers what is forgotten.
He sees dualism in thoughts, but the thoughts that haven't been captured by anyone yet.
The light that he sees scintillates in the nebulous. He's realized he's never been looking at the light in it, but the darkness that defines it.
"What"
"5.76"
""
He leaves. He's going to where he already is.
The sun had a certain eloquence to it. The sunset escalade mirages between apathy and the reflective glimmer in the eye. The I. Iridescent light illuminates. Phosperence ruminates into perspective. Like wind chimes moving and singing, masquerading itself as alive, so the sun rays approximations, and ours. Never do we look directly into that we speak of. A certain mysticism of knowing is dissonance- like the infinite air confined into lungs. The everlasting acute sun rays, only analogous to an entity, not an entity in itself. What makes those singing wind chimes not alive.
He knows he'll never relate to anyone. He doesn't want to, that's a good thing. He's sick of things making sense. He's sick of trying to understand, being indoctrinated to need to understand. He sick of thinking thoughts are his, or thoughts are owned. But it'll never end. There's always something in the nothingness. Silence isn't nothingness. Nothingness exists due to there being sound, that is reliance he thought. Our nothing is something. Silence precedes essence, essence is silence. He was cognizant of th-
"5.76"
"5.76"
"5.76"
"5.76"
He lef-
"5.76"
"5.76"
He sits there knowing knowing. Not doing what's not done, dogmatically binded to truth and the very concept of things just being true or false. He knows the truth knows what truth knows. He's sick of encounters beginning and ending, he's sick of beginnings and endings correlative to things. Things don't correlate to anything. Things are just other things he thought. That person he loves. Why do people think love is something we belong and just give each other. Why is everything resorted to just giving, getting, sharing. There's more. There's less. That person he loves. He'll never be loved. Someone may love him, but that doesn't mean he'll be loved. Athhat nperrson ehe slovves.
I don't think he's ok. I don't think he'll ever be ok.
