/lit/ - Literature

>>13004223
well it certainly became that way. but it's probably just better if i take my peculiar brand of shitposting into a new register, rather than circling the void in the way that i do. the Cosmotech megathread was two and a half months of dedicated shitposting and became a kind of a weird primal-muffled scream of sorts, an attempt to Say Everything, which is clearly impossible. to try to catch your own mind by surprise is a recipe for total madness, and there's enough of that in the world already.

i basically need the equivalent of Takuan Soho tying me to a tree and letting me just dangle there in the rain for a few days until i just stop feeling this ridiculous urge to say whatever impossible thing it is that keeps itching me, because this never ends up happening. what happens is just more books, longer screeds, weirder punctuation, deeper self-loathing, and bouts of depression that would be more deserving of sympathy if it weren't for the fact that there is almost certainly *nothing actually happening* there.

it is necessary for me to Be Cool, however impossible a task this is. the world is going to do what the world is going to do, explode in ten billion schizophrenic rainbows from one hundred billion kaleidoscopic eyes. there is no advice for this, it's absolutely part of the next century breaking through the accumulated death and detritus and horribleness of the past one. life is going to go on, birds will sing, cortical modems will be installed, Cthulhu will work on his PowerPoint presentations, Bitcoin will grind, rats will spontaneously awaken to the miracle of life and their teeny heads will quietly explode in some cage in MIT with a muffled *pfft* sound upon discovering the overwhelming joy and terror of creation, and all the usual bullshit. it will be as it will be, and the hate does not need my help.

any notion of me abandoning this board forever is obviously completely wrong, given that if somebody punches in my odious tripfag handle i will probably respond to it. but this is something that has become compulsive and addictions really aren't so good. i saw the Wild Ride and became a believer, to ask for more is hubris. maybe in this metaphorical home there could be something like, i don't know, a conspicuously badly-built (and yet carefully fashioned, as if by some primitive species of Early Man) pepper-grinder, that just fucking *will not crank* but is, for some reason, there. a weird object-prototype of some form, like a tangled collection of crudely-fashioned parts, kept mostly as a relic under the stairs. like shamans attempting to understand technology so ready-to-hand to us we barely notice it. and perhaps graven with weird runes visible only by moonlight, in a secret language. some kind of caveman artifact, shaped by early hominids too confused to know what they were doing, and yet somehow producing something that clearly has to be a pepper-grinder. what else could it be? the whole thing is just confusing.