The title didn’t suit the content of the post and now I’m changing it

This is my third post in a style that doesn’t suit me. I’m sorry to those who like me but cant dig what I’ve been writing. I understand and it’s alright. I’m likely to return to form and have writing which is directed towards an overarching goal again at some point coming soon, I know I speak in roundabout half sentences here now and then.

When I think about my reputation, how I have so little and so much, I think about these things. These traits. I’m not that person that you wanted me to be, I speak in circles too often to ever get anywhere. I stagnate.

It’s nearing Christmas, this means alcohol and dairy products. Cheese. I’m talking about cheese. Other things too of course but I’ll let you fill in the gaps. I’m noticing a failure in autocorrect to place things now and then, I’ll be less thorough in my editing tonight. I’ll be honest, I should not give a shit. The year is this year and the software I am writing by hasn’t the wherewithal to replace my wherewithal? Disgusting. It’s by design it has to be, purely to spite me this software is incompetent, I know it.

Ive seen that the quality of authorship has little relevance on its popularity, in stride I take this to mean I should not care at all. I do care, but that is irrelevant. There is nothing I can do to change my circumstance, many think this untrue, as this suits their narrative—something not up to them, they merely exist within a story in which no recognition of meta occurs. They are truly characters in the story and are not plagued by authorship as I am. This is of course, I’m well aware, a facet of my character that believes he is aware of fourth wall breaking authorship; I of course also know this to be a fated thing, an aspect of my costume quite in character. This awareness does not change in any way the regularity by which I chop wood and carry water.

I don’t know who you are, I don’t know who my audience is, I don’t know who or what I am. I write this partially as a journal, not really to myself, I’ll never read it again. So why am I writing it? I’m compelled, it’s compulsion really. To tell a story, my story, to express feelings into script. My autocorrect keeps adding things that makes me want to KILL IT. I think there was an update, it got worse. Why does the tech keep getting worse? I’m sure we all grumble about these things.

I am carrying out ideas in a way quite inhuman, things pass through me. It’s been several years since Ive believed that I am human, that I “do things”. All these little assumptions, idk, I’m fine with being crazy if you want me to be. That just doesn’t resonate either. I’m quite lucid if you talk to me, maybe slow depending on the day or if I’ve had my coffee.

Writing like this would be best hid behind a paywall, or something. This would be better off as a note. Feels so cruel to send this into an email inbox. Not just this, these kinds of articles. It’s pseudo poetic drug induced rambling that nobody (me) cares about. My draw, id say, is mainly “spiritual”; I can tick other boxes but that appears to be my primary niche in that I don’t see too many talking about genuine methods of awareness. I have seen others, The Cosmic Man has caught my interest lately, here and there another sage catches my gaze. It just doesn’t feel all that important to engage in politics or cultural discussions when 90% of humanity is unaware of what I consider to be the very basics of required comprehension to be an intelligent human; sure, great, you have specialized education or talent in some arena, but if you cant touch the Dao what’s the point of us speaking? You don’t have to use Dao terminology, I’m discerning, ill find if you’ve seen God or not by talking to you… there’s just no value to me in those who haven’t touched the core.

Part of it is my self hatred, recollection of the person I was before I knew of the Self. That come to Jesus moment, I really am thankful I died in that instant and the new and improved me took over—not like I became perfect, but I awakened then to the possibility of potential, I gained eyes to discern where until then I was merely effect of forces beyond my awareness. I feel that I must keep stating it, that core understanding that must be known before anything of merit can be done… but at a point it just gets boring, if you cared you’d have figured it out. It’s the oldest/only story ever told. There’s just so few beyond this threshold, it’s unbearable. People prefer to live such minute lives, unaware, mostly asleep. You try to show them something outside the illusion but they’re not even paying attention. Oh well… have to learn most people will die, and you’ll be left with survivors guilt. You could have saved them but you didn’t. Thats what you’ll tell yourself. Not every day, it’s not a burden every day. There is peace also in knowing that even one made it out.

I had a couple of rum and cokes, writing this. Whenever I write something like this you can assume it is at least in part drug induced.

I think this is a fitting and abrupt end to the ramble. Goodnight 💜