sheriff shooter

I admire the zero bullshit guy. I feel like hitting him, (thereby doing further damage to his prematurely denuded head), but I know that would only be because I admire him.

Admire that he reached through to me.

Admitted the circumstances were professional, but when working in a line like I am, you realise the person is the professional and vice versa.

Events like this are few and far between. Most people in my line of work are thoroughly pretentious to the point that is the only personality they’re left with. A lifetime of bullshit and more bullshit interrupted by smoke breaks and youtube cats can make you like that. And I don’t blame anyone. Not even the cats. Everyone has his purpose. And the purpose of the balded one was to embarrass me of myself.

And I’m glad to be. Glad to be closer to the zero mark as far as bullshit is concerned. Thank you, balded, for exposing me to me.

More than the feeling of inadequacy, it’s the realisation that I’ve been found that stings. The realisation that who I’m up against sees me for the fraud I am, making me see it too. Nothing hurts more than the truth.

I’d love to season this moment and preserve it the way we do pickles. For future visitation. I’m writing this from the back of a cab, but that’s just the nature of the predicament.

Hurts, but it heals. Like a salamander whose tail has just been separated from self.

There are more words inside me that won’t come out, (and I wish the pain were to force them out). But I guess I’ll have to make do with this severed self-expression for now.

It's like the light has left our lives.

Giselle is gone. Bright and smiling and apologising for talking too fast.

She's grown so much. It's nice to see her like this. 

In the last few years I've barely seen her at all. Which is why it's strange to see her go. But I still feel empty now that she's gone. I suppose she was always near, in the back of my mind. She was always present although we'd hardly meet. Now that she's gone and now that I've watched her leave, I know. 

Now I want to move on too.

Life is a conveyor belt. I don't want to be left behind.

There is great power in a tumbling rock.
The gods shook it loose.

What are they trying to tell us?

Back in the days before telecommunications, the gods spoke. 

Their voices were heard in the whispering of the trees and the howling of the wind and the crackling of fire and the clattering of rocks and the thundering of rainclouds.

Relentless in Their pursuit of Self, maintaining forever the appropriate measure of distance for the echo.

The mind possesses a thing beyond human understanding.

The brain is just the hardware, and would explode to comprehend itself, its computing power too low for self-discovery. 

Writing 'this wall is here' on a wall doesn't affect its presence. 

What if it weren't there in the first place?

(What did I just do?)

Thinking 'this brain thinks' over and over again isn't going to affect whether or not it thinks. But it may just drive me crazy. You can echo 'do I?' and 'don't I?' all day long, and soon enough, you'll have the answer.

'Am I crazy?' is a good place to start.

Just make sure that whatever you do, your thoughts circle.
Think labyrinth. 

I'm glad I did that. Rewrote the silence.

I walk down the road (or up, who's to know, really?) and my thoughts are running around inside my head. Constantly running, like a marathon runner with a disregard for fatigue. 

I exhaust myself without knowing it. Running all the time. Look at that girl. And that one. And the moulded mirrors on that blue kinetic. (Smile). Reminds me of when I was younger.

Everything around me is from when I was younger. Even these memories. And the grip on this pen.

As if my life depended on it.

The world is a memory, and I'm going to write it.

Far away in the distance is the face that is not yet your own.

Observe the creases. You put them there.

Admire your crow's feet. Admire them.

You don't admire yourself enough. You should.

As your mind's eye pans away, remember what you've just seen. Remind yourself of who you are to be.

Now go out there and be yourself.

That's your only escape.

I worry I won't live long enough to see the future. One day I know I'll be right about that. 

Paper seems a lifetime away. Like we knew each other once from someplace else. 

It's strange, its giving of its body the way it does, like an altruistic creature of the woods.

It's a pity we chop trees down to put a few pathetic thoughts together.

We think no end of ourselves.

We make me sick.