This is the best I can do

Currently uninspired, slug-brained, sloth-limbed. An inert mass, idling, leaking gas. Thoughts fail to form and flow; must be blockage at the source. Need draino for my mind pipes. I force myself to write. Who is exerting the force and who is resisting? Who finally complies? How many different selves are at work within me?

My sovereign self makes decisions and commits to plans that stretch out over long periods of time. It coheres through the unity of its projects. Smaller selves then carry out the daily tasks that bring the sovereign  closer to its stated goals. Still other selves resist these goals, wielding the weapons of doubt, indolence and nihilism. Defectors and agitators stalk in the shadowy corridors of the soul, stoking dissent, fomenting a revolution without purpose.

Why bother with your character, with becoming something in advance of what you are now? You are alive for no reason, why toil for scraps of meaning? Seek the pleasures of the body, stuff the gullet with rich food and drink, stroke your rigid rod until waves of muscular contraction ripple up and down your body. Feel your tightly coiled identity come undone as you spray sperm all over the bathroom floor. The mind is free of itself. A blank slate soul and a pile of soggy tissues. When the tension of life builds up again, release it through your dick again.

Sleep more, awaken only to contemplate the joys of unconsciousness. Atop your calibrated foam mattress you will forget onerous ideals and exacting crafts. You will eat deep fried dough covered with thick chocolate and caramel syrups, hollowed out and filled with glimmering fructose. Dream of success, of power, wealth, and influence, but do not pursue any of it. Work only as much as you must to provide yourself with cheap sensory delights. It is time to masturbate again. You want to reach of the bottom of total depletion, rocked by convulsions, ejaculating dust, your testicles dehydrated.

Don’t read, don’t write, don’t think.

If you read, you’ll forget it. If you write, you’ll be embarrassed by it. If you think, you will feel unease. Better to abstain from effort. No one knows who you are anyway; no matter how honestly you describe yourself and your life, no matter how much passion you pour into your works, you will never convey yourself to someone else. You will not be preserved in a book or a legacy. Find bliss in renouncing all aspirations, let entropy overtake you, feel your flesh and mind dissolve with each passing moment.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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