I see solar flares in sunsets and cosmic dust dancing on doorways and city streets. My life is continually bumbling and propping itself against the sheer materialism of the universe encompassing, suffocating, insulating, surrounding, me. I am dust, dust, dust. All I can ever think about is dust and vast distances and vibrating particles and mashing nebulas. I’m caught up in affairs so much larger than myself that I’m left feeling eternally drained, abstract and unfamiliar to this life I’m living—this body I’m inhabiting. How can I be down here, when my mind is forever up there? In there? Out there? Out where? In the ether, in oblivion, in absolute physics. I took it. I took the drug and looked inside and I saw in my breast what is in the night sky: the vastness. Black vastness. A gulf impenetrable. Am I the only one ingesting darkness? Am I one empty vessel surrounded by flesh filled to the brim with existence? To see that void in myself was to understand what I am at risk of losing. Nothing. I am neither made nor finished. I am greater than the stars, or god. I am beyond being. Or, what? Perhaps, merely being. Perhaps, merely a body, lacking even mind. Just, flesh, form, no consciousness. Pure consumption. Hume’s bundle— but more severe, further lacking. I am either dead or not yet born or something in between. Regardless, far from living. Very far from living.
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