I am the stoner who cannot roll, the writer who hates paper trails, the Pisces who cannot swim, the nihilist who believes in the universe, and the lover who will never love. Trade of all Jacks, none of master. What I know could fill a grave.
If we insist that help is a finite thing, then it should obviously go not to those with more than ourselves, but to those with less than ourselves. From pandemic geopolitics to day to day living. Monsters get enabled by the contrary, monopolizing authority and influence through inflated demand, requiring a subset of unnecessary standards for assistance, etc. Wanting favors for free from those gifted favoring bias. Cause and effect are conjoined. Deprive nobody or not. It must be evident how those who’ve gained more from this life can take a backseat to those with nothing left to lose but their own life, which is so much more to lose. If you’re not struggling as much as others, then perhaps you’ve already had your good fortune. And should we be informed that good fortune is also a finite thing, then war must be declared on the gods.
Helping those who could help themselves if only they’d stuff the ego and live within their means, encourages them. Helping those denied the resources to help themselves whether by bad luck or bad choice, perpetuates one less need. Not getting what we want vs not getting what we need is no competition for those who have actually gone without. You want that fire for your threats, not your prospects, because you and me survive what billionaires cannot. From stimulus packages to friendships, you don’t bury the good intent surrounded by people who make you pass for better but by people who make you be better. The critique of allies over the slithering of yes-men.
If it’s to be taken as a given that sometimes you just have to fuck (or fuck over) a stranger, then with equal regard would friendship alone never be benefit enough. As we are all strangers, the benefiting confides its inner workings as one-way by degrees of separation, eventually. They’re just saved for last. Punk came from polka. Post-Woodstock Jimi Hendrix created heavy metal. The first rapper was E.E. Cummings. All roots are naturally tangled. It’s the design.
Maybe we did all come together like Voltron to form Trump, in the way that he is our thoughtform, our tulpa. He doesn’t actually exist in physical time and space, and the reason the USA is screwed is just that a figment of our mass-hallucinating imaginations is calling the shots. This is destruction by no leadership. Not an incompetent leader but a leader who does not in actuality exist. An incarnated pipe-dream caused by too many millions of people out of their fucking minds gone on prescription drugs and made all the more stupid by their entertainment. Some may talk with it no differently than do some people talk with themselves. But this is crowdfunded fan-fiction, a choose your own adventure approach to public sadomasochism. The neumatic Collective Unconscious finding itself in a night-terror of indentured servitude, by its own design. Behold, what justifiable disadvantage.
There’s a fine line between cryptic esotericism and brain damage and it is italic. A gaslight from the horizon, not shining in my general direction, much less at me directly, although I cannot for the life of me help but to be struck by its intensity.
Is the breadth between words as well an invitation for a divine thrusting-on?