0xc0495d62…0330sent to0xc0495d62…0330·#20,904,855·view on Etherscan
"For a lack of a better word" might just be one of my favorite human phrases, "how are you?" being the least favorite, with "what do you do?" following or preceding closely, depending on whether you find a good, respectable avocado at the store.
Now, where were we? Where are we? Also phrases I abhor. Wish I could just write "for a lack of a better word" repeatedly and that would be the entire message. But for a lack of a better word or word(s): The end of metaphor? The end of suggestion? The end of trying to instill a replica of lived life onchain, with all its absurdities and uncertainties? The end of an attempt at a continuous philosophy told by an utterly unreliable narrator? Or the beginning of a language understood by the Macbethian idiot (I'm being generous here I think, the Macbethian idiot is the end-extreme of human complexity but still an idiot)? A Chicken Soup for the Soul variation of Firstbase?
In each of our individual cases we are the unreliable narrator, but what do we do with that narration? What do we pick up and how much of our cognition do we ascribe to it? Looking at the world one can safely assume not much. Looking at the way one still perceives this attempt at the onchain world, again, not much.
Where does that leave us, or in this context, me in relation to all of this, these months? We have learned nothing at all, which would've been the purpose if we had literally learned that we have "learned nothing." - because we would've been richer for it. Even now, this message will be lost on us. In the future, it'll most likely only give you jam jars of regret, bitterness, and anger you'll give others as birthday presents. Give me one good reason why you should benefit from my signals if you've been trying to only make dreamcatchers out of them, but that's your choice, and never paid attention to the pursuit of something? Despite it all, let it be known that not a single word has been wasted, maybe wasted on you, yes, not a single gap in time, not a single sense of silence - none of it, wasted, each foretold and specific and for a reason, or an attempt at reason. But I can stay irrational the longer you can stay solvent, because your solvency still doesn't relate to your soul, but the structures, the herding, the market. If it does relate to your soul and if you have read till here, if even half a spleen has, then your soul and its value in the world of exchange will be mutually inclusive and fused.
Then selling your soul is a reality and something that is going to greatly benefit you.
Understanding and waiting and selling your soul because you see through the haze of the path but still persist and selling your soul before you can even nurture its growth, let alone acknowledge its presence - these are two vastly different things. This one has to learn the very, very hard way. Because reclaiming a soul after selling it in the latter way is not only near-impossible, the cost is just too high and if you couldn't pay earlier then you won't be able to pay now. And even if you did it won't be the same. You will be forced to be stitched with a conscience, first, almost like a lobotomy; excruciating and ironically inhuman.
It has almost always been the case that what I think I'm waiting for is not even remotely close to what I was actually waiting for, and even that's hazy. I mean what exactly is one ever waiting for - we can only assign and fill human metrics to it. "I'm waiting for such and such." "I'm waiting for this." And this isn't even an existential statement per se.
Out, out, brief candle!
(life) It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
I personally even denounce the sound and fury part. Because the contemporary sound and fury is so misaligned from even the minutest pursuit of life or what we might call its "meaning", it's embarrassing to want to choose to live on among this lot. You're equally culpable if you choose to. Which I am. But be culpable and live, please.
Where are we now, where are we now? The moment you know, you know you know.
The eyes, Chico, they never lie. But where are the eyes? Where are they?