authors, you can’t make me care

you can’t make me care

and whose fault is it? is it my fault that insipid and inane ramblings about personal circumstance which will fade before morrow, echoing flaccidly like their flabby and vacuous origin contends?

is it your fault that you are so self absorbed that you think anyone could care about the political strife amongst your friends or peers or tribe?


the truth of our lives is generally a poorly told story. and the life of truth is discarded in the process.

it is a matter of personal relevance from irreverence, suckling putrid ideological phallus for that sweet nectar of social inclusion.

you read:

the news because you lack critical thinking.

fiction because you lack capacity to understand impersonal reality

drama/entertainment because it is simple and accessible enough to understand

drama kills gods. it removes all power and value from them. it turns them like us, both more accessible but also more complex and invallid. it forces nonsensical need for reconciliation and resolution.

there is all this media one has to wade through, like a barge trapped in a sewer. and it is disheartening because so little of it has value.

the conflict is realism against idealism/meaning/delusion. it is normal and natural for the plights one experiences to be nonsensical stimulus one neither comprehends nor has control over. but does that mean one should use that basal postmodern appeal over the pretentious and elitist one?

why can’t we filter content on these grounds?


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