There is no wish I wish to say.
The distance between me and
the average life expectancy
of a man is the same distance
to a sudden and scarily recent yesterday,
one that flavors my dreams
as though I just woke to that cold sunrise.
My namesake died at the same age I am today.
He perished from “the stone.”
He worked until his last breath;
he’s remembered by almost no one
save academics and me.
I’m to measure everything against “greatness”—
which is to say, against the herd’s love or hate
for similar things.
If my hard work doesn’t register,
then it was for naught,
and I am a loser,
a worthless freeloading dipshit.
I haven’t been able to stand alone.
But then, no one has.
“Self-made” is a myth for children.
Toxic individuality is destroying
everything as I write this;
children raised by villages
do in fact turn out to be much better.
As do the villages.
It isn’t possible to be a true creator
in this day and age without suffering
melancholy and depression.
We have been reduced to
and are expected to give all we have made
away for free.
Else we’re just “selfish.”
And so here we are
at the end of the world.
The Quiet is returning—
very, very loudly.
Most of you will go to your graves
having given nothing to this world
and taking everything you could get your
filthy mitts on.
This you call “capitalism,”
and claim there is no alternative to it.
Oblivion is waiting for you.
It’ll be the pure of us “content providers”
that’ll get to move on.
From the upcoming
Conversations With God: Volume Two
Featured: Disbelief, by yours truly