how q found contentment

Sydney_1988_016 by pierre wayser

it is night. just that. nothing more or else to it. it is somewhat humid. somewhere a light is green, somewhere red. i love these periods in life where i achieve a (sort of) dissociation from principles, and beliefs, and dogmas, and ideas, and things; so that people become only people. who do things. for reasons i don't really care about. and we are good people because we are good people - not because of reticent religious anxiety, not because of fear love hope IOU dogma afterlife spiritual-growth nothing nothing. yes means yes. no is no. up has a meaning and so does down. sometimes these are confused and that's fine too, just because you can't spot where violet turns to red in a rainbow doesn't mean there's no rainbow. from time to time, i subconsciously (i wish i knew how to do it on command!) manage to take a large figurative box. in it i place (first and foremost) god. then i take his silly principles, his ideas, his mumbo jumbos and i put them all in there. next i take hope fate Adelaide deceit love friendship loyalty membership childhood lust fraternity memory coolness intelligence pride Haifa eyes that are yellow and blue and honey-colored Los Angeles the future and i put them all in. i sail it away and i'm somehow left being just myself. i find myself doing good things for no sake at all. sometimes i disagree with a thing i do think want. i bypass the usual excursions into self-loathing, and merely shrug it off. good things happen somedays. other days bad things. bad things happen to good people and good things happen to terrible people. there is no divinely rewarding god upstairs. there is no spiritual karmic law (at least not in this world). i sigh a breath of relief that i have at last discovered that things happen. thoughts happen. actions are not predetermined by playing juvenile hypothetical games... or those interview-exam what-would-you-do's. no one knows what you'll do. i can't get mad, i can't really get anything. i float through life a little hazy. like the edge has been taken off. i can't find a 90 degree angle anywhere (and i'm pleased someone put all the sharp objects away). sounds are sometimes near, sometimes far. all this i seem to have learnt from hammers and nails and sheets of gyprock and cans of paint and my tender bruised lily hands. they have hardened. there are bruises all over them, and the knuckles are worn, and i can sense a strange strength in my body (similar, but distinctly different from the feel of working out regularly). (also there is no aesthetic reward, it is my body's secret from me the strenth it has found in its lower back). it seems to have come from angles that align and others that don't. it seems to have come from the realization that standing staring at it won't get it done. it seems to have come from measuring the boards incorrectly three times and there's nothing you can do about it but measure again. and my thumb has a jigsaw shaped gash that reminds me of barbed-wire and world war two. it probably needs stitches but i avoid taking it in because i feel spring's latest bud may find its way out from there. like if i'm patient, and work quietly a whole new me will grow out of my cut. i nurse it and care for it and it still retains its vintage glamour - it's what's left of the war, a heritage of sorts. right is right and wrong is wrong. sometimes right is wrong and wrong is right. no one cares. monday manages to fit into tuesday without any assistance from me. i just have to do the next thing. stay on task. will my elbow up, and leave the falling motion to gravity. there's a sharpness to my palm, heat from the friction of the mallet's handle rubbing for an hour. the skin peeling away after sawing for 40 minutes. time ticks on. this board (being cut longitudinally) is testing the age of my skin. the atlas of my patience. i continue to listen to the sound of little teeth wearing at once-were-trees, and watching sawdust fill the room like an evil yellow-colored snow, and keep grinding into like the thrusts of lovemaking, or the pains of labor, or the simple gentle truth of a magic gyro that converts self-negativity into a positive self-harm. i feel i am improving my body. making it stronger, so it can hold longer. so i can touch women and my hands will feel like brick walls and not like tulip petals. (one having failed, perhaps the other will succeed). there is nothing i want. nothing i am. nothing i was. nothing i can(not) fathom. i think slow, desultory thoughts that go from nowhere to nowhere. i have dissociated myself from meaning. nothing makes sense, and what's even better: nothing needs to. (because it does). when i don't question, things simply exist in a content here-we-are.ness that makes intuitive sense that defies.shuns.ignores.elevates questioning. i understand everything by turning the other way. my blurred vision is the clearest one i've found.

i don't know anything.
i care about nothing.

i wish it could always be this way.