Everything is connected in a way that I can’t explain. It’s like trying to give a definition for the word “the.” Sure, it exists in a book somewhere, but I don’t know it off the top of my head. There are many layers to this. One of the easiest to conceptualize is done through first assuming that humans are everything. In this way, modern infrastructure binds us. Power poles and telephone lines and social media and wires that run underground in a grid under cities and plumbing (all our poops are connected, too.) There are not many places left on the planet that you can’t go without too much trouble (given the funds of course) and those places that give you the trouble are generally the most rewarding: things like climbing Mt. Everest or venturing deep into one of our rapidly-depleting rainforests. On the highest mountain you get the best view, rainforests are filled with the world’s most objectively beautiful creatures.
Moving past this human-infrastructure view of connection, we are all also made of the same stuff. I am made of stuff that’s been recycled through many people and plants and animals, and I am constantly recycling stuff myself. The only “new” material that enters the planet does so in the form of meteor showers or asteroids, or solar energy/radiation. This makes the earth one living breathing organism (as of late, it has vaper’s lungs and diabetes.) There’s something that binds us together, too. I love logic and I don’t have much faith, but it’s hard to believe that nothing mystical accompanies sentience. I hope that one day all the souls will be dancing around a fire, or maybe they make the fire.
I used to do acid to feel this connection. The feeling is indescribable. Everything is a metaphor for everything, every single person object sound smell blends together and becomes one. It’s something I wish I could experience all the time, this feeling of connectedness. I think all those drugs had the opposite effect on my sober mind, as I now feel apart from everything. Reading books is helping me with this: when I read, half my attention goes to the narrative and the other half is directed toward the author. I love to imagine where the author was when they wrote this particular page, or what books they might have read as inspiration for the one I’m reading now. I see Edgar Allen Poe as a Rodion-Raskolnikov-type, depraved and alone in a room above a shop: the streets are muddy, people don’t shower enough, horses replace the sounds of cars, and men and women alike are very obsessed with hats. Not him though: he scribbles into a leather-bound book with handmade paper he bought for fifty copex, used with the first few pages torn out. He has a pencil that he sharpens on the rough stone of his flat’s wall, and his pants are more holes than pants. He has no woman in his life to fix his clothes (this was the way of the time) and he does not eat or drink unless his landlady provides him food (which he scoffs at her for, but he takes the food and eats it anyway.)
I grow tired of this existence, the one I’ve created. I’ve jumped out of the plane with no parachute but the ground continues to grow farther away. I feel like the one flower that grows in the cracks of the sidewalk: I’m pretty in my own way, sure, but I’d be so much more beautiful as part of a bouquet or in a field of similar minds.
If you read this one, I’d like some advice, a book recommendation, or ideally a hangout time that we can devote to discussing the topic. Astrology pulls everything together in a way that I don’t understand, but you do. The only spiritual readings I’ve encountered are a book or two on Buddhism, and the Cartoon Utopia, which is a great read by the way, would highly recommend.
I often say “I don’t want to inflict myself on the world” and yet I long to be a part of it. A part of something at least, even if it’s just a room full of people who also want to die sometimes. We all long for some form of comradery I think, but I haven’t found it. I don’t have many friends, I think because most of the people I meet, I meet through work, and they either want to fuck or talk about the weather. I want to fuck too, but I also want to talk about what happens when we die. Or about how organized religion is a well oiled machine, or about how our entire government seems strong, but it’s really one silk string holding a 50lb weight, or about how popular music has shifted in tone over the past 40 years (but really stayed the same.) I want to have a conversation with a stranger about their thoughts on morals, what is really right and wrong vs. what we think is right and wrong. I want to talk to foreigners about their experience growing up in a place I’ve never seen. This feeling of not being good enough, paired with my nightly habit of recalling every single thing I said over the past 16 hours and scoffing at most of it fuels this expression.
Sometimes my imagination and sense of proprioception don’t work. I think it may be the drugs. Most of the time is happens when I masturbate jerk off touch myself and other gross ways of saying that. I can’t picture my penis in my hand: it is either inflated like a balloon, or a stick. I don’t watch porn anymore but I’ll look back on past experiences or ponder hypotheticals to fuel the fire. In these instances, everything seems to be covered with a tv-static, or some other distorting filter that makes it impossible to imagine something as simple as a breast, or a soccer ball for that matter. Even when trying to imagine a blank white wall, it is covered in railway graffiti or a whole mess of spilled thumbtacks or mouthwash down the drain or a guitar being strummed out of tune or nightmare tie-dye.
Give a man a fish and you’ve fed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ve made yourself less valuable in a hypothetical post-apocalyptic world.