Wit 6

Link to article: Wit 6.

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

Wit 6

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