The safe trip you wished. Where all the voices of all the times you heard the truth—the words that resonate with you—and you didn’t get up to get a fucking pen to write down what inspired you, well sometimes it’s just trash and no one would miss it, except, they would. We miss the bad along with the good.
And on your holidays, not because it’s right or because you say so, but when you think of me, I write. Faces everywhere, paperclips and sidewalk and potato chips stare day and night there. They’re the ancients, vestal daughters of gods and does it sicken you to see an old man laid bare, or do you laugh and swear he had it coming, the saw on his legs, the bath filled with lye? Or does it somehow satisfy an itch, stroke an urge of your revenge porn of squirming sneers that slide upon the greasy vinyl sea. They’re not so bad once you get to know them, see, you play their game and they act all friendly.
A morality is personality and individuals are copies, drones of no identity, functional necessities in a species divvied up into discrete competing colonies. Some ants even practice slavery, tending to the many queens all fighting and flaunting for the right to feed, her brooding warriors, construction workers, foragers, commuting thousands of scale miles across the jagged hellscape of earth. A safe return is not a given, scores will meet their doom by shoes or neighbors out looking for food. Accidents of terrain claim multitudes in the struggle to continue struggling to continue the struggle.
We’ve seen the movies, the cartoons, the novels which messianic bullshit runs through, but the truth is in there too. The chocolate in peanut butter, order in chaos, truth lies in every lie and the joke’s on all of us when we do—and we’re all going to—die. But the machines we design to outlive our species, when we eventually go extinct like the vast majority of all the species that have ever been.
The next generation of this, the transhumanists, shaped by the environment as sea glass smooths under the patient waves, each one of us makes as we trace our ways. No more of this long distance running, big brained premature birthing cousin of the apes. I’m sorry but that’s what it takes to stretch through the crapmosphere, the fault that may cost us the stars, the specially relative bend of spacetime that comes when you combine 5-MeO-Dimethyltryptamine with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor, you might notice that when you are born, you die to death, points adjacent in the nascent cardioid of life.
Is that alone not worth a try? Is nothing you’ve tried more compelling than pride? Will there to be a beyond to the string you pull on, deforming the tapestry of this plane, this membrane of reality bending for everyone? If you don’t love your kids or your spouse or your friends or the trees or the stardust we breathe enough, you just sit right down, take one more puff, and again until you wake the fuck up.