Stop flexing your intellect, silly rabbit, & write from your heart. Slice open a vein & pour out some blood onto the page. Even with that big, impressive mind, it's all been said before, just skip on down to the library. For whose applause are you searching, anyway, displaying your illusion of knowledge?
And illusion it certainly is. Or more like delusion, I like to say it. Same thing. Let's say you do manage to write a new philosophy, a new psychology, a new economy, or whatever, what then? Bask in your glorious success? The world stops for nothing, for not one second, let me tell you that. Even if you do manage a fresh fart in the wind, it's immediately trampled over, snuffed out, & suffocated, kebabs from a cart in the street after a night of drinking, else some stale piss in the sewer, a new plastic-aluminum high-rise built right over it, a monstrosity. Once a tree falls in a forest, a little plastic one pops up in its place.
And then who cares, anyway? Here I am reading Jung. And I have such little reverence. This guy was a pioneer of psychology, a legend. But so what? I got 300 other things to worry about right in front of my face than his one, tiny—though impressive, it must be admitted—structure he's created, his system of psychology.
This is what it is. Reality is defined, a tube through the backyard, the pipes of your sprinkler system. Society is reality, our systems, democracy, capitalism, all that, the education system, the healthcare system. But reality is only a tiny fraction of the story, one star in the universe of billions of trillions.
Now, reality is existence, sure. But existence includes everything else outside of reality too. Which there is, we forget, locked into our tunnel-vision.
Or, go ahead & flex your knowledge, sure. I don't care. Sing about the glories of all the Roman emperors, perhaps, or the good ones anyway, the qualities they exhibited, their values, what we can learn from them, & how we can apply these lessons to to-day. But excuse me while I sneeze, a little snot onto the page. There we go.
But give me something, damnit. Some juice in your pen. Your huge brain is not going to impress me, your un-ending rationalizations & systems of logic. Or pencil it all out anyway, sure, but include the chaos too, everything surrounding it. Why not? Or don't too,—what do I care?—I only suggest because I lack this focus myself. But give me something! some communication, you old stiff.
Come off your high-horse, break free of your braces, Forest, & run, stretch those legs in some open pasture. Have you forgot what it is to be free, to not be paralyzed by your delusions you keep of yourself?—the narrative. Let it melt like butter on a skillet, & crack open that egg, even smash the yolk, if you like. Ol' Humpty Dumpty sat on wall, had a great fall, & cracked his skull. But haven't we all? Who are you, trying to pretend?
We're all in this to-gether, Mr Vonnegut, just laughing & laughing like lunatics. Only the crazy pretend to be so serious. We're all being microwaved the same, anyway, all these technological frequencies, scrambled like eggs.
I have no idea what I'm even saying, I'm just writing, my stream-of-thought on to the page, the pen the stylus, scribbling, recording, a diamond-tipped end, like a record-player, it's so sensitive. And I've already snapped-off a few pages, even, look, enough for one of these blog posts.
Though I suppose it's an earnest attempt to inspire, the current motivation, more creatives-in-arms. Because I'm greedy. Call it the extroverted intuition, I read others, onto whose shoulders I climb & have a hop off myself, a nice game of leap-frog, my own splash into the abyss, the unconscious, the looney-bin.
Which, I'm feeling a bit on my own high-horse though, I suppose, the priest at the pulpit, the ring-leader, come one & come all. Like I have the power to inspire, I don't even want, it's just a fleeting feeling at the moment I lifted the pen. In 20 minutes or so, I'll probably be crying at some love-story on film, stuffing myself with ice-cream. And then later I'll be fantasizing about my flights into the city, cafe-sitting, by the sea preferably, smiling softly in content to myself, yes, yes, or something like this.
Though I've been trying more to focus myself, to keep at least a topic-idea in the back of my mind, I've kind of seen how it's done, & then the stream swirls round that. We'll see. But equally every now & again, un-winding the clock is just as important, the bird back in the box.