thoughts from founder's: the beercans and balconies; walkways and statues; the cigarettes and above all the sense of poetry to this

I’m not ‘cooked’ yet. to become myself. not for your sake, for god’s sake, but for my sake, because I must do something, to be immersed in something. I must be involved in something above and beyond myself and to find myself, this time, is to lose myself in something about life. something to do with life and truth.

not a binary truth, or a singular one, but the truth that acknowledges all truth, the necessity of trying and the futility of hoping. the importance of writing and walking and reading and knowing and singing and being better than what you thought you were. could be.

I want to open eyes and start fires, to burn down council houses and dreary weekdays. I want supermarkets to fall apart in this deepness, for people to know and be known, to fall apart in their existence of stupidity. perhaps this feels superior. mm, perhaps. I want.

psst, if we all gave freely and sweetly of ourselves, we would all end up with more.

the problem with my trusting in god is firstly the absolution of a sense of my own responsibility and secondly the purity of the fact that I don’t. I just don’t. like I don’t trust you to catch me, like I don’t trust doors not to hold dead bodies. would I trust myself? to save myself, no. to make myself, yes.

I said maybe, you’d be the one to save me.

No.

I’ll sit on your bed four minutes more, to put the song on repeat, to make this moment loop and last forever. let’s not finish this conversation, let’s not go and bake, let’s not be cooked and whole, let’s stay imperfect and make each other sick. jesus, I’d make you sick. let’s not leave. let’s not rise.

wish I could stay sick with you.

superiority then. a sense of responsibility. in the end, and only in the end, only you can open your eyes. making and waking yourself is your own task. that alone is what we are here for. make me a propagandist, let me scream at you from street corners.

not for evangelism, but for the love and the hate and the sickness of it all, let’s talk about beauty and pain, let’s find some truth in the myriad, the fucking blur of it all. a sense of urgency.
my Christ, what have I lost?

I will not be binary. nobody is singular. bakhtin and the collective entity. we are each other and if I am damned then so are you.

I will not believe in your two, your consequence of two, your heaven and hell. there is more than one path, or we would surely trip over each other.

no and no and no. and no.

there’s not a lot noble about this, except I will not quiet myself any longer. I will not pretend to pray, I will not attempt to kneel, I will not rationalise away the pain of millennia, I will not subvert and conform and dilute in the way you want me to.

I have lost myself, and I have gained no life from you.

I have lost myself to you. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where we end and where we begin. I will be singular about that, at least.

when it comes to You, my ‘self’ will stretch forever. all I am will reach to the edge of space to cover up and comprehend the fact that you are there. you are everything and I am talking to myself. I am everything and I will define myself.

I will find spine again.

your hot water grew cold on my tongue and I, I am lukewarm. I am tepid. I am near death with searching for some kind of change. I will change myself now. I will miss you. but not enough.

it’s a social release, like crime or smiling.

it’s uncanny, the way we are, we’re just uncanny.