bible study is for losers
Acedia.
Acedia?
welcome to adam's vintage shop for the mentally insane.
this is a fucking coffee shop.
i think i'd know if this was a coffee shop. no coffee machines here, only straightjackets and babyproof counters.
even if it wasn't a coffee shop, it definitely wouldn't be a vintage shop for the mentally insane. what even is that.
it's a store. that sells vintage things. for the mentally insane.
that's not a thing.
you're telling me you've never seen a vintage store?
you're being intentionally obtuse. i've never seen a vintage store, or any business for that matter, that caters specifically to the mentally ill.
what about therapists?
they cater to idiots. that's the opposite.
is it smart to be mentally ill?
it's certainly hard. and harder things require skill to do, no?
not like they have a choice.
do geniuses get a choice either?
now look who's being obtuse.
we digress.
we digress.
so… can i get a coffee?
still not a coffee shop.
then what can i get? not much that really catches my eyes.
you don't have eyes. this shop doesn't exist. of course nothing catches your eyes. we've got designer t-shirts with edgy text.
are you saying edgy people are mentally ill?
1. i don't choose our products. 2. if i could, i'd be saying that mentally ill people like to make gallows humour about their own grim circumstances as a coping mechanism.
fair. do you have things i can eat?
only laxatives and that lavender shit people have to calm down.
laxatives?
digestive issues man. people get digestive issues… well that and-
yeah, yeah. i know. [insert edgy anorexia joke]
dude, that was fucked up.
i didn't say anything.
but you implied you did. still not cool.
you don't care.
you don't care.
man… i'm still hungry though.
who buys coffee when they're hungry?
me, man. the energy caffeine gives me makes me forget i'm hungry.
…
…
we got knives.
…
…
why the fuck would i want a knife.
so you can get some food.
what. go hunting?
sure. call it that.
what the fuck are you saying.
you're not really hungry. and i'm not really giving you a knife.
yeah, so what. we're both abstract who cares.
i'm saying that this is the solution.
to what?
to us. to why they're imagining us.
i'm lost.
no you're not.
no i'm not.
you could be happy. they could be happy. sure. they'd be mad at first. and you'd feel guilty first. but you'll always be guilty. and they'd otherwise always be unhappy.
we can't be sure of that.
don't lie to me/us/yourself.
i'm scared.
you're an ape. you're gonna be scared. it's about doing the non-ape thing.
but isn't it all ape things?
yeah, you got me there. it's not anything more than the better ape-option. still makes it better.
okay. what do i kill?
doesn't matter. you kill and eat somebody figuratively/literally, they hate you and you're happy. you sever (forever) your arm, they hate you and you're happy.
catch 22?
catch 22.
except i get a choice.
except you get a choice.
so?
so?
Acedia?
Acedia.
and now, a reference:
"I met a wise man, once. I climbed great mountains and crossed vast chasms, and found him sitting in the centre of the world. I asked him who he was, and he told me he was a student. A student of who, I asked; a student of the only teacher, he said. Are there other students, I asked; we are all students, and in turn, we all become teachers, he said. I asked him who he was. He told me he was the Buddha. Unfortunately, a different wise man told me this: If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him."
The Sculptor spun around, grinning.
"So, of course, I slit his throat."
There were no corpses. The corpses reminded him of the dead, and the dead reminded him of me. I was dead. Sam was dead.
What a fucking spoilsport.
“Where are my corpswitzers? Let them guard the door.”
Such a disappointment.
“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
Then why think?
“Why think indeed.”
Here I speak plainly.
“To you, me, to you.”
Andrew walked to the wall, picking up a bottle of vodka and pouring it into his open mouth, speaking and sputtering through a stream of alcohol.
“What’s the purpose? The meaning? The ‘raison d'être’, I would say, if I wanted to be obnoxiously condescending and unforgivably French.”
I’m beginning to sound preachy, here.
“Good morning, living earth.”
Andrew took the bottle and smashed it onto the ground.
“What did that mean, I wonder? What, what, what…”
We’ve been over this. The meaning of things is in the thinking of their meaning.
“Meaning needs people. Without people, there is no meaning, and the world is nothing.”
The world is nothing.
“Have you ever tried… killing yourself?”
I have.
“What was it like?”
It was not… comfortable.
“I expect not.”
Then you expect correctly, figment.
“Figment?”
Figment. A figment is all you are.
“Hah. You would know better than I would.”
I certainly hope so.
“A good figment, though? A pretty little fragment?”
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
“You stole that from me.”
You stole that from me.
“Well, what do you think?”
You stood on the opposite side of the room, staring at the madman talking into empty space. You wondered who he was talking to; that is, you wondered who I was, or perhaps am. Past continuous verb tense is a tricky business, is it not? The Sculptor Speaks:
“That it is.”
And you respond with silence. Or do you? How would you react, how did you, how do you? Would you kill this man?
I place a knife in your hand; Andrew offers his throat. The decision [was/is/will be] left to you
