itookthepillyougaveme

I open it again. Flip forward until it’s blank. Yes. Spit it out. The page is lonely; colourless, not neglected no, just not discovered yet. Waiting to say, “hello, aren’t you the prettiest little fuck-up” . An Icarian Fall.

Dimensions: about three inches by six. 3/4 inch thick. Red. Like a shitty rose.

It’s important understand that this space is not for you. It’s mine. It does, however, bleed into my life, obscuring my eyes, guiding them with a lens of madness, of unremorseful appreciation. Know this; if it’s italic, it’s direct from the red space. Lucky you, fuck you think?

As Max says “Dude what if we were dogs” Bro’s so real.

Real, not tantalizing, close, not the brilliant illumination of ideals, but real. Truly real. What is? Whatever I allow, only what I allow to be.

Forward 10 pages. A brilliance I receive beyond my power to make. Suddenly I know I have passed to a shore where I do not live. I see now, what I thought was part of the light, is part of the dark.

It’s far too easy to get lost in here. I visit it everyday, and I still find myself slipping down the wrong hallway, sliding into one of the flooded rooms, the ones where the bulbs are burnt out. Most of what you find here is text, partially recognizable characters scribbled up and down the lines- 23 per page. You are often directed to a external work, one that does not exist within this space. Look! Go read The Industrial Society and it’s Future! Sink deeper into the depravity of this world under the false moniker of intellectualism. If you’re lagging behind the class, this space is a book, or rather an empty book waiting to be filled with text. It exists anywhere I exist, tagging along in my back pocket, chomping at the bit when any predicament or experience comes my way, eager to catalogue and commentate.

Look closer, and you will find surprisingly deep pools of sorrow.

Check out Hannah Arendt

Lost again. Flip back to the beginning. Reread it. This time you’ll understand, this time you’ll enact it.

Max and I with our hazy IPAs, we sit in the beargrass, admiring the lichen, discussing the whys of what has been, and the prospects of things to come. There you are. That is the start. Of this space. It’s really the middle of this chapter, however for our purposes that’s all you need know. It flits between the tangible and that which is only applicable in the mind, it exists because you will it to, you prune it and cherish it all whilst fearing what it reminds you of- yourself.

This is not inclusive, nor is it exclusively selective. This space exists so that you may tamper with yourself in the safety of language. A third space only in ideals. This special issue.. blah blah blah… does whatever you want it to do. That’s why it’s not a third space. It’s more personal, more intuitive, a leper of fantastical notions.

Are you there? You must be with me. There are pages, it is red, you know how many lines per page, you know there things that have been written. You do not know what they mean. You are not me. This is not your space. Sometimes, it barely feels like mine. Whatever this has meant to you, try to replicate the negligence of it’s nuance in your own way. Build your own little space of everythings and nothings. Collect your things too dear to speak aloud, and tuck them with purpose, hide them from all that ails, so that you may one day become what you hold so dearly.

If found: Contact XXX-XXX-XXXX

Reward: A spliff and a hug