What have I done?
How crazy am I?
What is going on?
How can I actually make things better for me and other people? I don’t know how to do it!! I just don’t. That’s the problem. I can’t enter Reality. I can’t accept Reality. I can’t love everyone with a selfless love. I can’t even come close.
I want to go home. I can’t stand another day of this hopeless failuring. When another Saturday ends without having managed anything, I feel like a skyscraper collapsing in upon itself, twist-snap-crashing down.
Don’t talk to me about sex and relationships! Don’t talk to me about human interactions and friendship! These topics just make me feel vaguely confused and embarrassed. I say, “uh, yeah”, but I think, “oh my god! what are you talking about?! what is going on?! what are you saying at me?!”
I’m blue whale, which is the largest creature that’s ever lived. I weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of 300,000 pounds (150 tons). Sounds like a lot, but a modern diesel locomotive weighs a little over 400,000 pounds (200 tons), so you see the world can easily support me. The world’s mighty big. I’m happy and perhaps a little proud to say that we blue whales are too big for sharks to eat. I cruise along at 20 mph about 40 feet below the ocean’s sploshing topsoil, but if need be I can race to like 30 mph or dive maybe 1500 feet down! Although, I mean, why bother? Krill can’t escape my shuffling pace, and krill like to hang out about 330 feet below the surface during the day and up top at night. I like to swim with my great, whitetube-undergirded, double-breasted mouth open, gulping in piles of hardshelled, softbodied, salty crunchy sweet krill. I will eat like say 40 million krill in a day–that’s a good day of eating for me. Without krill, I’d have no hope, no love. I don’t like to think about it. Even with all these swarms of black-/glassy-eyed, orange-shading-clear, antennae-pointing, flicker-darting edibles, I sometimes feel real down and mope that there’s nothing for me in these icy clear waters where I float forever like the Great King’s spaceship.
I bow out. I beg for indulgence, for forgiveness, for forbearance. I bow out. I was in the wrong and now must banish myself from the stadium. I didn’t understand. I got it all wrong. But I shouldn’t have even worried about the storyline, which was in this case in any case moot; I should’ve just met the moments and let them mildly drift the fleet apart. I really don’t know what I could’ve been thinking! Anyway, I apologize and leave town.
Oh, wait, because now other botches, in their own times half-perceived and immediately divested, en masse descend, presenting themselves like friendly ghosts arriving upon an enchanted hilltop. They hold invitations: a weird creepy creaky surprise party: a jamboree long planned, and me the guest of honor.
I start to seem a cracked marble statue of my younger self. I begin toappear thus: a completely smashed, finely and ornately–if a little outdatedly over-romantically–inked porcelain vase. How odd! For so many years I’ve placed myself on that beautiful wooden podium in the front hall and smiled good-naturedly, explaining merrily: “a little cracked here and there and in need of dusting! I’ll be getting to that presently! For now, if you’ll follow me to the bar and forbear a few boasts about my gin and wine collection! Ha ha ha! How funny and snugly flows the joke about how we all mean to do better for ourselves and everyone else but we kind of let our weaknesses keep us in the half-ass lane until it’s too late and we’re dead! Ha ha ha!” It seemed a funny joke at the time. Now it’s rather embarrassing. Completely smashed!, as it turns out.
Then again, I mean: how muddy the shapes, what form shows the whole, and what clear decent joyfulness might yet find its way into life before death? What’s the proper balance between attacking past follies and pursuing what’s yet possible? It must be a thing of degrees; another work in progress. I can’t truck with everything I’ve said and done, but we must needs find now oh please God a newer world where we are all happy and good together creating beautiful thought and thoughtful beauty; and the final judgement is the important one, and it comes a little later on, on Judgement Day, that bright, glorious eternal-morn where God admits what was in us and what we did with it.
Heraclitus once stated: “There awaits men when they die such things as they look not for nor dream of.” Seems like a safe bet. But what are we to make of this one: “Mortals are immortals and immortals are mortals, the one living the others’ death and dying the others’ life.”??
I’m in the wrong. But the bigger question is what can I do that would now be best? And so I leave this chorus for a time, not because there’s no other way, but because I feel this is the best way. I’m in the wrong; my focus has been perverted by egotrip and lonelylash – cluelessness is somewhat bad behavior and somewhat a bad hand; I apologize and take my leave.
With such back and forth, he left the stage, was perceived or believed perceived once or twice weaving his way through the crowded market scene outside the theater, and then no more. He was in the wrong; he had to leave #inthewrong #justicerocks #nowwecanbehappybutnotreallyuntilweallmeetagain #ahbartlebyahhumanity #lovesucceedswherejusticefails #hemakeslightofeverything #notsuchabigdealreallyletsnotgetcarriedawayhere #itllallworkoutintheend #ettu? #etnos? #outofthecrookedtimberofhumanitynostraightthingwasevermade #Close!standclosetome,Starbuck;letmelookintoahumaneye;itisbetterthantogazeintoseaorsky;betterthantogazeuponGod.
But this Pure Love we’re selling: Please return to the homepage to order any infinite supply you like.
Allow us to advertise; allow us to win you over; allow us to point out that it’s been explicitly prophesized: no more water, but fire next time.
Author: Whedon Even Knowl
Editors: Bartleby Willard & Ambrose Whistletown
Copyright: Andy Watson