An evening again, the moon’s illumination competing with the banker’s lamp and the laptop computer screen.

I promised myself I would stay out here in the public eye because I have nothing to hide.

But I lied.

I’m hiding myself from myself, throwing up artificial barriers because I’m afraid of letting go of promises I made to former versions of myself (i.e., talking to myself in previous moments).

I don’t know if I’m afraid or if I’m so well trained I don’t want to ruin people’s personal cocoon of illusions that hides their unrestrained all-consuming love for life.

I would tell my social self to disappear except I don’t know what I’d do with the states of energy absent of the social self.

So, instead, I throw out thanks to folks like Greg Cook and his tax firm, Cook & Co., and the great tax preparer, Chris, for their ability to get us great refunds from the world’s superpower of a government bureaucracy.

And to Papa Dubi’s for the delicious Cajun food at dinner tonight.

The Rave for showing “Limitless”.

Why do I keep asking permission to be alive?

After all, I don’t exist.

Paradox or dilemma?

A vow of poverty and unable to depend on others to completely prop up the helpless me.

Take that back.  Dependent solely on my wife’s loving patience and monetary support to keep me alive and healthy enough to sit here and croak/groan/squeak/type because I can’t trust the system into which I was born to provide long-term sustenance for the species to which I belong.

Able to say anything I please here but using social courtesy to avoid the current version of seditious blasphemy which would permanently get me ostracised or worse.

Despite overwhelming evidence that tries to tell me I know more than I could possibly know, I refuse to believe I have more than the capability of assessing microtrends for entertainment purposes only.

This is all supposed to be a big joke, a grand illusion or comedy, isn’t it, Rick?

I’m pretty sure no one reads these words.  Surely, I make up a reading audience and comments/feedback in order to build a convincing storyline?

I only imagine in conversations that I catch glimpses of other people speaking phrases I’ve written that serendipitously line up with what I’m going to think next.

Living solely in the moment will do that to a person.

I am a monster devouring the old self.

That must be what it is.

A grotesque.

Pushing people away because I fear what I know I’ll see – my true self in the core of other states of energy like me.

That is, there is no core.

There truly only is the moment.

The past and the future really are illusions.

Time is irrelevant.

There is no me that lives or dies.

The power to lift a veil from the imaginary curtain rod of time reveals the absence of all that these states of energy have wound themselves up about.

Meshing/weaving wisdom as fast as one can to stay ahead of information overload.

Debrainwashing and removing false filters.

All for the purpose of repurposing repetitious nothingness.

This body is all I am.

I have nothing to give you, nothing to trade for your openness and kindness except platitudes and fake movie sets.

I am a prop in my own little drama.

Predicting the future is carrying forward seven billion thought trails multiplexed into a few dozen themes woven into the surrounding ecosystem that is just part of the galactic set of states of energy with less and less influence by short wavelengths and slightly more influence by longer wavelengths.

I don’t want to find a way to pay the bills with this knowledge.

I just want to be dead.

Until then, I fill the time between this moment and one set to occur 14,294 days from now.

I can keep lying to myself that long, maybe.

I shouldn’t be here in this mood because deep down I know I don’t like myself anymore, with no future to look forward to, nothing to do but rise up and please those around me when they lay out their dramas before me and ask me to play along.

I am the void.  Empty.  No walls to call a vessel.  Certainly not a vassal.

Tied to a past that doesn’t exist and promises me no future.

Thus, I am dead.

Gone.

As I said, the walking dead.

Another day closer to complete dissolution.

Caught in the trap of the false sense of security.

If the species doesn’t want to save itself from itself anymore than I do when I waste energy in a blog like this, substituting convenience for prudence, then how can I say it’s worth saving?

It’s not fun being me.  I would give these gifts of wordiness to anyone who could more quickly push our species toward whatever it is that my faulty personality is blocking us from reaching a more conscientious living in the moment.

But I don’t know how.

After all, these are just fingers or ends of the armlike extensions of my body playing along with the electrochemical pathways tuned to making pixels light up in stark opposition to shadows cast by the Moon’s reflection of the Sun’s states of energy doing what they do.

What is blocking my thoughts this time?

What am I sensing that I don’t want to let myself know I am blocking again?

Why this subterfuge of literary plot devices?

Why pretend anymore?

I can’t tell you what I know because I don’t know what it is that puts these words here except the culmination of in/formal education.

Lie down and let daydreams and sleep entertain me.

They may not be any more real than anything else but they’re all I have.

I apologise to a certain person for pushing her away but that’s all I know how to do with the strong personalities like you – my ability to hold clever conversations in person is severely limited by my illusion of objectification as a self-defense mechanism.

The training required to get over that illusion requires giving up the illusion that sticking with paradigms of the past is a requirement of my subcultural upbringing and thus a core part of the person called Rick who doesn’t really exist.

Paradox or dilemma?

Yes.

I also have to believe I’m the only one who knows what I’m saying here, aware of the thoughts that aren’t being expressed due to conflicting thought trails crossing over each other, and slower typing speed than pure thought expression will allow.

And the knowledge that no matter what I say, I’m repeating myself and the thought sets of billions of lives before, during and after mine, which at a smaller scale repeat the living patterns of all beings of our molecular makeup.

The same choices we all make.

So why choose?

Good question.  To bed, then!