on the addiction to american excess. what a privilege it is to starve yourself. written july 7th 2025.

dont we have too much. isnt this too much. arent we making more trash to sift through arent we filling our brains with replicable shit. if were all lucid dreamers then none of us are and we might as well go back to where we came from: rotting underbelly, cosmic boom. are we maggots or planets, stem cells or hangnails. not all of us can be a miracle of science. not all of us can be prophets of god. it looked kind of pathetic in person. it was prettier in my bedroom when i was sat hunched over at my desk eating neon blasts of nothing to numb my single precious consciousness. if we know everything now and can do everything now then what is the point of anything. comfort disgusts me and i am an addict who can no longer grow. my belly bulges every night i go to sleep and i still have more to throw away. if creation is the privilege of the unburdened. if the problem is the execution, not the concept. if i feel more awake in sleep than i do conscious. if each word from my lips is a demand for attention. if i cant tell the difference between natural reactions and diagnoses in the dsm-5. a human was never meant to be defined by our use. cant we just turn it off. turn it off. & dont turn it back on.