the soup


I don’t know what I’m looking for, tonight. I’ve spent too much time on the internet, poking around. I forget where I am, I let go of my intentions, I end up in a small room and no one else is there. I wonder where everyone else has gone; but then, they are nowhere; in the land of the internet, the people are never there. You only hear whispers of people but when you really look, they are gone. When I am on the internet too long I forget not to look for anything but loneliness; I am deceived into believing that I can find others there. Really, it is best to just be alone, if one is alone. Being alone is so glorious; it’s warm in my trailer and I have good books and my dogs, and the quiet sound of the street, and the remnants of the rain dripping off the tree that arcs above my trailer, whose name I do not know. Solitude is richer than anything; it contains the infinite. The internet contains only the idea of the infinite; outside of us, all around, is the actual infinite, pressing against us. When I am alone, and I am not on the internet, I can feel it. The infinite is thick, like fog; it weighs quite a bit. It moves in and out of me, and between myself and the sky and the water in the air, and the light and the floor and other people. It has currents; it has tendencies; it responds to resentment and to prayers. It does not see time, or space, it is everywhere all at once and yet it is a soup; reality is a soup. We are all in different parts of the soup, floating around. There is not time, or space, there is only soup.

Good night, internet, wherever you are: in the future to the east, where the sun is rising, and in the past to the west, where it is setting. And I am in the middle of the night, north of the belt of the soup, which is suspended itself in a substance in which there is no up or down. And the light of the stars is old, and I am old, although I will never be this young again.

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