Burn After Reading

 

In the book of great or lesser odds it is written
Do no thing by half measures
Full throttle to eleven or no
When you commit to a thing let there be no grey area between you and your goal
There is only the journey you are on and the destination which you seek
The between is merely mundane stage dressing meant to muddle and confuse
But keep your wits about you, minion.
Else you find yourself wallowing in the bog of malcontents that also find themselves stranded here, some long enough to find the muck comfortable and it's foul taste to be ambrosia

For who are we but repetition and dance, perhaps to different tunes, of different tribes and names, all is limiting, nothing is forever.  From whence do we gather our strength to continue when all hope is lost, when we find ourselves wondering why we made how we got when did we where did we go wrong?  What is wrong but a mindset in which you let it color darkly that which taught you well?  The things that stick to the inside of your soul like a favorite treat you always come back to snack on.  What is left in the end when you face certain oblivion?  What pieces do we carry from one place to the next?  Why are they so heavy and why do we continue to carry them?  The bits that echo when all else is silent.  The tinges and twitches that make us tick tock so we can outrun the clock and go supernova on that ass.  All of this I will not answer for we can only find it within ourselves the things that cannot be written, these forbidden places the bravest of stars dare not tread. The hushed incoherent whispers between the words between the end and beginning, that ride the 4th 5th and greatest expansive dimensions that we cannot realize we realize even in our final formulations which can never be finalized, not in our greatest of fantasies or knife edged super ego walkabout.  This is the Tao, this is the way, up down in out turn around until you're inside out and now you're just a pretzel doing math.  Shoot straight, conserve ammo and never, ever make a deal with a dragon, or a cantaloupe.  Your will is the only currency you have.  Nothing is your right, not on paper not in law, there is only the will.  You who can't even manage to keep the same tense throughout an entire narrative, who the fuck are you even talking to?  No one will listen, as they cannot set aside themselves and neither can you.  You are one mistake away from true beauty, one push from ultimate futility.  Be sisyphus.  Be the Boulder be the one pushing it, slap a sticker on that bitch and be as delighted by all of this shit as you can muster.  Ad Astra In Nomine Absurdum.