I can’t think of anything. The gray fuzz that swirls during meditation only blocks out. Never produces. When people think of meditation, they think of trying their best to not think of anything. Maybe this blank stare at my screen serves a higher purpose.
It mostly comes in flickers. I had a weird dream last night. I was driving down the side of a mountain and for some reason decided to accelerate during a snowy turn. My car airborne the only thought that crossed my mind was “fuck, fuck, fuck.” The finality of my situation setting in while my all my responsibilities flashed before my eyes. I was pissed.
Due to dream logic I landed without a scratch on me and my car working fine. The engine turns over and I manage to get back onto a highway.
How many times have I died, only to drive off? How many times have I put the gun in my mouth, pulled the trigger only to put it back in the drawer? Driving on highway with family and wife during turn fighting off every urge to just keep going straight. Right off, sure they’ll use their precious last moments to blame, but you’ll be smiling finally. Your tendons habitually tighten and you turn left.
I’m talking about impulse control, but not in a perverted sense. The putrid and weak will claim that their indulgence causes them to live to the fullest; but they remain irrelevant. I’m talking about the souls you carry when you refuse to careen into the abyss. Your freedom tested at every elevator, crosswalk, and intersection. Let go of the light of death, it only serves to end.
It isn’t hard, you know, to not do something. It isn’t hard to not say slurs, not kill people, not rape. It’s not particularly hard to do these things either. It isn’t hard to stare down 20 stories up, starry-eyed, almost drooling and turn around in the end. Death is a mechanical failure. Your brain decides when you die.
So how many times have I died, only to drive off? Flesh-tear blood-ripple chord-split all the masochists understand that mutilation can only take you so far. In all honesty I think the guy who drives the same 45-minute commute to his cubicle knows more about death than the punk rocker nailing his sack to the floor. Cock-split doesn’t always have to draw blood.
Humanity; a patina of authenticity, a crock of shit, propaganda. Either way, you seem susceptible. How many layers of plaster have you put up against your own expression? No matter the color of the walls you’re jaded to the fire outside. Poverty crucible, indifferent accountant, ruthless mercy. All the same shitty paradigm designed to grab the back of your neck and push down.
How close you are to the boot is the same as life expectancy. The scythe chops the overgrown, the free, the infected and leaves complacency. How many lives have you lost by bending down? How many sacrifices have you made to tie your shoelace? Who are left, and who are taken?
I don’t think that living is a state of conformity. The endless tar that guzzles up the sighs of my ancestors prove that death is much more popular. I don’t think the scythe is fascist, or a figure of authority come to send the flamboyant to the gulags. It just feels shitty when you’re not picked.
How easy those wretched souls invade the nothing. Mind blank, on the brink of Nirvana only to be nagged down by some perverted ancestor. Sweating in the middle of 90-degree Summer, breaking down nothing into abyss serving the void. Quarry. What payment is sufficient for this labor? All those visages shaking their cocks in front of my frontal lobe.
ZCUMCORE 
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