Wit 3

Link to article: Wit 3.

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[[span class="blackout"]]Nobody[[/span]] ever expects it, and, [[span class="blackout"]]let's[[/span]] be honest, [[span class="blackout"]]you were[[/span]] in no way expecting anything to happen of note today, given the emptiness not only of the day but of [[span class="blackout"]]your whole life[[/span]], that same, dreary, day in, day out, living and surviving and living and still [[span class="blackout"]]you keep[[/span]] fucking living so now [[span class="blackout"]]we have to do[[/span]] something, and all of the sudden the fuck-ton of emptiness [[span class="blackout"]]you had[[/span]] becomes a whirlwind of pain and sadness, but reality and humanity and that //spark//, [[span class="blackout"]]you know[[/span]] the one, the **magic** spark that pushes [[span class="blackout"]]us[[/span]] towards and away from greatness and history, the knifes blade that controls and fights and sharpens [[span class="blackout"]]your[[/span]] wit, until, wit, there is nothing left to witness, and without a witness how can [[span class="blackout"]]you possibly exist[[/span]], but of course [[span class="blackout"]]you can't, nobody can, who thinks that they are[[/span]] truly [[span class="blackout"]]worthy of self-observation,[[/span]] this perverse internal leer as [[span class="blackout"]]you mentally reach out to[[/span]] all that makes [[span class="blackout"]]your domain, your mind, soul, and body, and body, and flesh and blood and organs and skin and rot and life and pain and[[/span]] only, every so often, [[span class="blackout"]]if one is especially lucky, you are given[[/span]] the chance to create and there is no true parallel to that of progenitor, the sculptor //ex nihilo//, exhale now and never excel even in emptiness, but then [[span class="blackout"]]you realize that it is[[/span]] --all that we destroy-- transforms [[span class="blackout"]]in our minds'[[/span]] eyes, and what was nihilo is now ex -- escape velocity is never easy to obtain, of course, [[span class="blackout"]]you live by[[/span]] that mantra, stuck between two forces of gravity, pushed and pulled and stomped and lifted up, up, up but only just high enough that when [[span class="blackout"]]they let you go, you are tumbling, falling, plummeting, witnessing your own inevitable[[/span]] death [[span class="blackout"]]until you finally **crash**,[[/span]] dive down deep into the loving embrace of [[span class="blackout"]]our captors[[/span]], the parasitic disease [[span class="blackout"]]we call family,[[/span]] lost and aghast in a cavalcade of needful things, useless things, things that wit not to [[span class="blackout"]]witness, losing who //they// are to[[/span]] the inevitable, creeping, exciting, logic-defying truth, that while all things may end in death, [[span class="blackout"]]you are not[[/span]] all things, [[span class="blackout"]]you are not[[/span]] death, [[span class="blackout"]]you are not[[/span]] a witness, [[span class="blackout"]]you are not,[[/span]] witnessing //ex vivo en nihilo//, the memories of nihilo exhale and exhaust and terrify and multiply extracting the essence of what it means to forget, and there it is, that is the sin [[span class="blackout"]]that we endeavor[[/span]] to oblige, the errata [[span class="blackout"]]we long to erase,[[/span]] ^^nihilo^^ y ,,nihilo,, y nihilo, until [[span class="blackout"]]we once again[[/span]] remain, and return, but where [[span class="blackout"]]do you return[[/span]] when the only scrap of life that [[span class="blackout"]]you cling to[[/span]] is held to wit only by the witless [[span class="blackout"]]one[[/span]], withering and wilting under the eyes of the [[span class="blackout"]]observers, the observed, the ex-ambassadors of the[[/span]] land where dreams live until [[span class="blackout"]]they are[[/span]] dreamt, a dying planet hemorrhaging the hopes and nightmares and compilations of what was once [[span class="blackout"]]//you//[[/span]], but has never truly been [[span class="blackout"]]your**self**,[[/span]] of course, nothing can ever truly hope to be [[span class="blackout"]]**self**[[/span]], after all, [[span class="blackout"]]**self**[[/span]] is as [[span class="blackout"]]**self**less[[/span]] as [[span class="blackout"]]**self**[[/span]] does, and does [[span class="blackout"]]the **self** salvage[[/span]] the selvage end of [[span class="blackout"]]our[[/span]] untimely strings of fate, the ever-woven tapestry of irrelevant emptiness, the taunts that echo through the empty school prisons, the impacts that rock the very foundation upon which [[span class="blackout"]]//self// is built, and with it,[[/span]] the death of observation and the reincarnation of identification as commodity, the capitalistic nightmare that gives power to [[span class="blackout"]]those without wit, those who have[[/span]] the right stuff, the special sauce, the magic that flows out through the mind and __onto the page__[[span class="blackout"]], the ex-sculptors now[[/span]] consumed into //nihilo//, [[span class="blackout"]]those special few who deign[[/span]] to inscribe [[span class="blackout"]]their[[/span]] images and memories and hatred and longing and memories, of course memories, [[span class="blackout"]]we[[/span]] remember, remember [[span class="blackout"]]members whose[[/span]] membranes [[span class="blackout"]]we[[/span]] punctured just to get a better view, a glimpse into that which [[span class="blackout"]]we[[/span]] cannot be, those [[span class="blackout"]]we are[[/span]] unable to live as, the un-un-dead, living amongst the monsters of the digital worlds [[span class="blackout"]]we conceive[[/span]] just to lock away on a server, the server [[span class="blackout"]]who[[/span]] witnesses [[span class="blackout"]]our[[/span]] greed, the child, the idea, the //genesis ex nihilo ex genesis//, the [[span class="blackout"]]one who is[[/span]] left -- [[span class="blackout"]]you suddenly realize, you[[/span]] --**__alone__**-- [[span class="blackout"]]are a[[/span]] witness [[span class="blackout"]]to today.[[/span]]

Wit 3

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