Wit 9

Link to article: Wit 9.

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Nobody [[span class="blackout"]]ever expects it, and,[[/span]] let[[span class="blackout"]]'[[/span]]s [[span class="blackout"]]be honest[[/span]], you [[span class="blackout"]]were in no way expecting anything to happen of note today, given the emptiness not only of the day but of your whole life, that same, dreary, day in, day[[/span]] out[[span class="blackout"]], living and surviving and living and still you keep fucking living so now we have[[/span]] to do something, [[span class="blackout"]]and all of the sudden the fuck-ton of emptiness[[/span]] you had [[span class="blackout"]]becomes a whirlwind of pain and sadness, but reality and humanity and that //spark//, you know the one, the **magic** spark that pushes us towards and away from greatness and history, the knifes blade that[[/span]] control[[span class="blackout"]]s and fights and sharpens your wit, until, wit, there is nothing left to witness, and without a witness how can you possibly exist, but of course[[/span]] you can't, [[span class="blackout"]]nobody 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,[[/span]] your mind, soul, and body[[span class="blackout"]], and body, and flesh and blood and organs and skin and[[/span]] rot [[span class="blackout"]]and life and pain and only, every so often, if one is especially lucky, you are given the chance to create and[[/span]] there is no [[span class="blackout"]]true parallel to that of progenitor, the sculptor //ex nihilo//, exhale now and never excel even in[[/span]] emptiness[[span class="blackout"]], 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[[/span]] is never [[span class="blackout"]]easy to obtain, of course, you live by that mantra,[[/span]] stuck between [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] your own [[span class="blackout"]]inevitable[[/span]] death [[span class="blackout"]]until you finally **crash**, dive down deep into the loving embrace of our captors, the parasitic disease we call family, lost[[/span]] and [[span class="blackout"]]aghast in a cavalcade of needful things, useless things, things that wit not to witness, losing who //they// are to the inevitable, creeping, exciting, logic-defying truth, that while all things may end in death, you are not all things, you are[[/span]] not death, [[span class="blackout"]]you are not a witness, you are not, witnessing //ex vivo en nihilo//, the memories of nihilo exhale and[[/span]] exhaust and terrify [[span class="blackout"]]and multiply extracting the essence of what it means to forget, and there it is, that is[[/span]] the sin [[span class="blackout"]]that we endeavor to oblige, the errata we long[[/span]] to 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[[/span]] life [[span class="blackout"]]that you cling to is held to wit only by the witless one,[[/span]] withering and wilting [[span class="blackout"]]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[[/span]] hopes [[span class="blackout"]]and nightmares and compilations of what was once //you//, but has[[/span]] never [[span class="blackout"]]truly been your**self**, of course, nothing can[[/span]] ever [[span class="blackout"]]truly hope to be **self**, after all, **self** is as **self**less as **self** does, and does the **self** salvage the selvage[[/span]] end [[span class="blackout"]]of our untimely strings of fate, the ever-woven tapestry of irrelevant emptiness, the taunts that echo through the empty school[[/span]] prisons[[span class="blackout"]], the impacts that rock the very foundation upon which //self// is built, and with it,[[/span]] the death of observation [[span class="blackout"]]and the reincarnation of identification as commodity, the capitalistic nightmare that gives power to those without 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]] consumed [[span class="blackout"]]into //nihilo//, those special few who deign to inscribe their images and[[/span]] memories and hatred [[span class="blackout"]]and longing and memories, of course memories,[[/span]] we remember[[span class="blackout"]], remember members whose membranes we punctured just to get[[/span]] a 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 digital[[/span]] world[[span class="blackout"]]s we conceive just to lock away on a server, the server who witnesses our greed, the child, the idea, the[[/span]] //genesis// [[span class="blackout"]] //ex nihilo ex genesis//, the one who is left -- you suddenly realize, you --**__alone__**-- are a[[/span]] witness [[span class="blackout"]]to[[/span]] today.

Wit 9

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