#7122026

[theicyfresh]

I'm going to be dust in the end, what wonderous revelry I've been gifted with. None of it will last or matter a Damn bit, what blessed time I've been gifted to Fuck Around. Because that's the thing, there is no purpose, there is no objective, there's no greater concept of what we're Meant For. We're meant to Move, and Rest, and Play. We're meant to get shitty chinese takeout eaten leaning against a brick wall smelling the drying rain on the pavement. We're meant to put people on the Moon, and to make a damn competition of the effort and ridiculousness of such a concept. We're meant for Absolutely none of it. They were Choices. What an amazing time to do Nothing. To do it well, perfectly haphazardly fuckedly well. To be nothing more than the excess of a braid, loose and spilling from such constraints while more flows past to landscapes unknown. What a gorgeous thing it is to have no where to be. Nothing to do. To be able to sit down and spin a globe and mark off all the places you don't want to go until it's just a soccer ball of blue and black because the horizon is Yours and what a delightfully variable thing that is. We've won, we're alive, and there is not a damn thing we need to do save get to tomorrow. Because then everything is a choice. That was one of the lovely things about being suicidal previously. I realized that continuing on is my choice. Easy as breathing, at times, while I remember rending name to flesh simply to escape the constructed reality I trapped myself in it became Easy. To continue. To take that extra time and make my own horizons. To care about things within my scope and to release those beyond. What wonderous revelry I've been gifted with. What absolute hedonism I've been afforded. What a lucky ridiculous life I've been assigned. Clawed for. Exhausted for. Bereft of sense and reason and held up by nothing more than the ring ropes at times and the gentle touch of people present and past. What an impressive thing I have accomplished. Life.

[theicyfresh]

I'm going to be dust in the end, so what wonderous revelry I've been gifted with. None of it will matter, the intent I assign will blow to nothing in the wind. Some of it will be caught, winds of fate taking what was once mine and trickling it across the pages of history. Not ink, not paper, but enough to drag your fingers through. Make impressions of. Our only hope for lasting is the reality that we Try, some intangible intent that mercurially settles into the callouses of those who come after. Your towers and monuments will reduce to dust, crumbled and misunderstood or just so much concrete beneath unknowing tread. But if you start as dust, if you Intend for nothing more than a kind word and your care and consideration to continue on then it doesn't matter if you're known. Your dust persists. You'll never get to see that impact, you must simply have faith that it's not to a void. That enough of You will be carried aloft in the world's most disjointed and horrific crowd surf, an urn aloft in a sea of ashes of people who Gave Better. To people who then give better. Moving forward. That's probably the trick, I think. Both the hope, and the minute nihilism of it. You will never be preserved, but your memory may. You won't leave a mark, but you can leave places better. You are nothing in the scope of the world, but the scope of the world is as far as your finger tips some days and in those days you are Everything. None of us will matter, but enough of us will.