Wit 7

Link to article: Wit 7.

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[[span class="blackout"]]Nobody ever expects it, and, let's be[[/span]] honest, [[span class="blackout"]]you were in no way expecting anything to happen of note today, given the[[/span]] emptiness [[span class="blackout"]]not only of the day but of your whole life, that same,[[/span]] dreary, [[span class="blackout"]]day in, day out, living and surviving and living and still you keep[[/span]] fucking [[span class="blackout"]]living so now we have to do something, and all of the sudden the[[/span]] fuck-ton of emptiness [[span class="blackout"]]you had becomes a whirlwind of[[/span]] pain and sadness, [[span class="blackout"]]but reality and humanity and that //spark//, you know the one, the[[/span]] **magic** [[span class="blackout"]]spark that pushes us towards and away from greatness and history, the knifes blade that controls and fights and[[/span]] sharpens [[span class="blackout"]]your wit, until, wit, there is nothing left to witness, and without a witness how can you possibly exist, but of course you can't, nobody can, who thinks that they are[[/span]] truly worthy [[span class="blackout"]]of self-observation, this[[/span]] perverse [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] rot and life and pain [[span class="blackout"]]and only, every so often, if one is[[/span]] especially [[span class="blackout"]]lucky, you are given the chance to create and there is no[[/span]] true [[span class="blackout"]]parallel to that of progenitor, the sculptor //ex nihilo//, exhale now and never[[/span]] excel [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] -- escape [[span class="blackout"]]velocity is never 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[[/span]] just high enough [[span class="blackout"]]that when they let you go, you are tumbling, falling, plummeting, witnessing your own[[/span]] inevitable [[span class="blackout"]]death until you finally **crash**, dive down deep into the[[/span]] loving [[span class="blackout"]]embrace of our captors, the[[/span]] parasitic [[span class="blackout"]]disease we call family, lost and aghast in a cavalcade of[[/span]] needful [[span class="blackout"]]things,[[/span]] useless [[span class="blackout"]]things, things that wit not to witness, losing who //they// are to the[[/span]] inevitable, creeping, exciting, logic-defying [[span class="blackout"]]truth, that while all things may end in death, you are not all things, you are not death, you are not a witness, you are not, 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 that we endeavor to oblige, the errata we long to erase, ^^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[[/span]] dying [[span class="blackout"]]planet hemorrhaging the hopes and nightmares and compilations of what was once //you//, but has never[[/span]] truly [[span class="blackout"]]been your**self**, of course, nothing can ever[[/span]] truly [[span class="blackout"]]hope to be **self**, after all, **self** is as **self**less as **self** does, and does the **self** salvage the selvage end of our[[/span]] untimely [[span class="blackout"]]strings of fate, the[[/span]] ever-woven [[span class="blackout"]]tapestry of[[/span]] irrelevant [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] capitalistic [[span class="blackout"]]nightmare that gives power to those without wit, those who have the right stuff, the[[/span]] special [[span class="blackout"]]sauce, the magic that flows out through the mind and __onto the page__, the ex-sculptors now consumed into //nihilo//, those[[/span]] special [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] better [[span class="blackout"]]view, a glimpse into that which we cannot be, those we are unable to live as, the un-un-dead, living amongst the monsters of the[[/span]] digital [[span class="blackout"]]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 realize, you[[/span]] --**__alone__**-- [[span class="blackout"]]are a witness to today.[[/span]]

Wit 7

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