This is a test. I have lots of textual shitposts to make, waiting to be released from the potential that is my soul, in its experience of my self as separate “parts,” created from memories. So many words. Are you allowed to unironically make copy pasta? This post is gibberish and so am I.

What be the rules? I’m all I’ve ever been and making my way to all I’ll ever be, and I’m also an idiot. How do I fill the hole? “Whole” only lasts so long, why’s the dark gotta be so scary?

Stay glib

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[–] SloppySol@lemm.ee 1 points 5 months ago

03:12

Power lies in paths realized, expressed in terms of interaction, created in the safety of a human mind.

The mind implies the brain, but what most forget is that it also includes the body. The body speaks as you.

But power lies in relationships and your place in them. The “bodies,” outside of you interact in very complex ways. The “body,” within, though?

Now that I question with such text, I answer in passion. I want this passion to be visible, for that sake I dream of making an interface to write.

I’ll make it on Linux, accessible by command line, but I’ll make it accessible with a GUI as well.

First comes the gui, not in code but in formulation of a place for me to write freely.

“Frame of reference is the necessary difference for separation to exist.” - me, now.

How audacious, to write my thoughts on such a way. Contagiously, is my hope in that question with no question mark.

Who cares what I have to say, when it’s nothing but pseudo-intellectual bullshit.

Alas! I’ve found a target I would not mind exposing to this utter bullshit that is my soul right now.

You! I ask not for love, for hate, or anything inbetween or not. I ask for naught. Only that you care enough for the time you HAVE lost in reading whatever portion of this that you have read, to ask yourself what you feel.

Anytime, anywhere, all the time, everywhere, what you feel. Do you feel your breath? Your fingers, your toes, your muscles, your bones? The beating of your heart, that travels everywhere?

I don’t ask for an answer. I ask and I listen, I speak and it’s enough. Alas, if only that was the case. If only I could SHUT THE FUCK UP.

We live for many reasons, one of which is that we haven’t died yet. Another is that our parents fucked.

Was it worth it? I guess that’s what they must ask? Maybe? Sometimes? With no “earth,” as Plato saw it, we travel at the speed of light. Mass is the slowing down of light, from the perspective of the very very fat.

I strive to mean much, yet I still walk empty. I talk less than air, I scream with words silent. Is it worth the read? Was I worth my seed?

When you trust yourself to answer honestly is when the questions disappear.

Help, a scream of love, not me, but yourself. And not for me, either, please. The stronger my light grows, the easier it is to hide in its shadow.

Cry for yourself, if you can. It’s too late for me. Pray for your children, it’s too late for their seed. 03:29