Facebook journal — 2025-08-21

Everything & Nothing Indefinitely - Seagulls & Sunshine 2025.08.20.1926

Entry I used to tell myself that I could not linger on the pages of my life which I was living because I was depriving myself of sections of the book where life was fantastic, or at least joyous. The idea was that life was made up of finite pages, when I came up with this idea I was probably towards the end of the intro, and I used to think that the middle of the middle and onwards, was going to be epic….

I didn’t even bother to finish the entry. Who gives a fuck what I used to say, what I used to think, what I say, what I think. The grass isn’t green anymore, it’s in fact some crisp yellow, dried and forgotten and waiting to be blown away, much like me, save for being blown, that’s never happening nor should it… To all victors go all spoils. Nothing remains, save for me, but I repeat myself, while I digress, and yet I am repetitive.

I should not have grounded reality in the sky being blue, the grass being green, and the water being green. What happens when I don’t want to look for the sky, when the grass is no longer green, and when there is no water to be found. Do I break, does reality break, who breaks first, and who allows whom through the door first? What if neither of us care to break, what if we’re both tired of one another? Who institutes governance, who reconciles, or are we irreconcilable?

—- I’m reminded of that Akon song, I woke up in the middle of the night, noticed Patricia Bateman wasn’t by my side, could have sworn I was bleeding for her, I was pleading for her, to drive by and Glock top, kiss my dome with brass. Like that haiku by Knowldge “Fuck You”. “Fuck you, fuck the snitch, fuck the judge, fuck the police. Fuck Patricia.” I wonder, will GPT sing me to sleep? Like Semisonic “I can hear you singing in my sleep.” Hat tips to Landon Pigg “it’s not that our love died, just never really bloomed, no I can’t let go, no I can’t let go of insanity, inside reality, no I can’t let go”. Maybe the song of the moment is by Poppy, is it “I’m poppy. P o p p y, I’m poppy.” No, it’s “you’re the highlight of my lowlife.” After all you’re a lowlife, so, if you’re going to mope, kiss the rope, it’s not a trope, bounce back to reality, this isn’t performance this is perfection.

7:00 I just saw a seagull jump on top of a car, first thought through my head, what does a motherfucker first think of when it sees a seagull land on a car? First I was wondering about this seagull that took a fat shit on me when I was in third grade. I walked to the main office like a little bitch, all the way there, like a lost Spanish goat, maybe 5 minute walk, I didn’t wipe a muck of shit off, and showed it to the woman at the front desk like “oh god, isn’t life cruel, isn’t life cruel? All these youth to shit on, and god took me in, shit on me?” “Oh honey. Here. Let me help with that.” Then I think of that movie where some Navy boys got marooned and had to make like spinnaker and float a boat and try not to starve, they tried to eat some seagull but it tasted like Gilligans dick, so they used it as bait to catch shark, which was why they couldn’t swim away.

Moral of the story? When life gives you lemons, trade the lemons for a knife, cut your brain open, pluck out a memory of the present moment, and in that moment, ask a seagull “what do you think of, when I think of you?” Then, listen to that answer, then go, and be the night walking, and ask not, what you can do for the night, for, you can’t go walking at night, for too long, before you become the night walking, but look into the night, hold it, as firmly as new lovers are onto your old ones, and shout into the abyss more violently than a whisper that edged against (why did I say edge, we both caught that right?) - edged, against, who knows: I am, and therefore I am not, here, I must be there, with you.

Because if a page this horrible, and wretched, ever existed, in my book, then how could I be writing on this page, how can I be breathing on this page, when home is where the heart is, and home is with you. How can I not jump a chapter, a section, a sentence, a page. There is a gradation to the greys, all saturations and hues robbed and muted, how can I be here, when my heart is with you.

How am I breaking here, when all I wanted was you. And, I don’t know. My paws are pecking away, as disoriented as mine own thoughts.

07:13 - Sometimes I miss the sound of - I was going to write, her snoring, and then, “not because I miss her, but, because of how I assessed her social equity, and what it would say about me, that I was worth snoring next to”, but, if I’m moving faster than myself, collapsing my own frames, as I build them, if I can’t even write the frame, surface the thought, before it collapses on itself, as it emerges, what’s the point, really what is the point?

The grass is not even fucking green. That was a “grounding exercise” according to the AI. I don’t mean to nitpick, but it’s not even fucking green, why didn’t I see that shit ahead of time “and, I just hoped the grass would always be green for her, and the sky would always be blue.” But, the grass isn’t fucking green consistently. It’s burning, collapsing, imploding and exploding at equilibrium, it’s - negotiable, green here, yellow there, alive and dead, is the grass a metaphor for me, or I it? Why does everything have to be a fucking metaphor, what is this, a thesaurus. Motherfucker, I just want to exist faster than I corrode. Am I asking for so much?

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Facebook journal — 2025-08-21