Thread: I May Have Written This Ironically

Lately I’m on this whole cycle of meditations that keeps feedback looping into little riffs on the non-existence of objectivity -- a topic that’s really interesting to me, though I can’t think of much to say about it, just all these sub-vocalized echoes that go about as far as psuedomystic drug users verbally masturbating over the ineffable mysteries of death and the cosmos and all that, yakking to fills space on the t-axis between you and the terminally appendixed answer key at the back of your complete autobiography

And then there’s that Philip K. Dick thing: objects are stationary, only information moves. That doesn’t even make sense, but it sounds cool, right? And then there’s Burroughs going off about how language is a virus and such, and it makes me wonder about all the similar pasterns cropping up in everyone’s cortex and about how I keep finding different flavors of my own ruminations maturing in the endeavors of other humans, similar strains of conceptual bacterial ecosystems, still recognizable in the digested-experience / excreted-literature of domesticated primates from biblical times, an odd sort of continuity that makes the nearly incomprehensible Ecclesiastes still so deeply resonant.

But maybe it’s all ink blots and constellations and such? All the external stimuli just falling into the already established and largely inflexible internal framework of my personal fractal (that manifests on my ceiling in the magic hours after LSD), where each part mirrors the whole and there’s this kind of horrifying / beautiful homogeny across an equally mind-numbing variance of scales. Infinite(ssimal).

Originally Posted by DromedaryLights

Lately I’m on this whole cycle of meditations that keeps feedback looping into little riffs on the non-existence of objectivity -- a topic that’s really interesting to me, though I can’t think of much to say about it, just all these sub-vocalized echoes that go about as far as psuedomystic drug users verbally masturbating over the ineffable mysteries of death and the cosmos and all that, yakking to fills space on the t-axis between you and the terminally appendixed answer key at the back of your complete autobiography
And then there’s that Philip K. Dick thing: objects are stationary, only information moves. That doesn’t even make sense, but it sounds cool, right? And then there’s Burroughs going off about how language is a virus and such, and it makes me wonder about all the similar pasterns cropping up in everyone’s cortex and about how I keep finding different flavors of my own ruminations maturing in the endeavors of other humans, similar strains of conceptual bacterial ecosystems, still recognizable in the digested-experience / excreted-literature of domesticated primates from biblical times, an odd sort of continuity that makes the nearly incomprehensible Ecclesiastes still so deeply resonant.
But maybe it’s all ink blots and constellations and such? All the external stimuli just falling into the already established and largely inflexible internal framework of my personal fractal (that manifests on my ceiling in the magic hours after LSD), where each part mirrors the whole and there’s this kind of horrifying / beautiful homogeny across an equally mind-numbing variance of scales. Infinite(ssimal).

Nice work.

*deleted*