My name is immaterial. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. Even if you are a friend, it is likely you know only the face I turn your way. You may have used to be someone I thought I knew. I saw someone recently like that, older, more assured, better lines to their face. No matter: it could not have been them: even if it was who they became, the one I knew is long gone, and any hurt we had, any joy, only so much noise, a TV show about other people who probably never were who we thought they were. Just memories of a story that is over, or a dream that never began.
Maybe you know someone. You know their favorite color, the size of shirt they wear. You have them by for dinner, or you make them breakfast, or they move in, and you find yourself buying a washing machine. And then, one day, they are someone else, right out of the blue. Because, you see, you don’t know what demons they carry around. You don’t know the things they hide from even themselves.
You might see I have disabled comments. This isn’t that kind of blog. You may think that you see yourself in the things I write. That’s your problem. I am not writing this – This is writing this. I just happen to be in the way, and This won’t give me peace until it is written. If it looks like you, it’s just coincidence. We all believe in that, right? Coincidence? That’s why I don’t allow comments: I don’t care, I just want this monkey off my back.
I have weird shit to write, some which might make you question your entire existence. So be it. Because this Thing is a thing that cannot be described. I cannot tell you Its shape. I cannot tell you Its form. But perhaps I can walk right up to It, right to the edge, where all that lies beyond is It. And if I do that from a number of angles, perhaps you will begin to ascertain the Shape that is not a shape, the Form that is not a form, the Thing that is not a thing. And, if you could almost touch that which is not, you might come to realize that which is all things.
So, you have been warned; my duty to you is over. Let It Be.