Slumber

9:21AM, this time, and I do not bother to write about a difference in time between this and the last, for I realized after-the-fact that I had done my subtraction wrong. Alas!—will mathematics never fall within my reach, and I only know greater or less than in the terms of human spirit, multiplication perhaps with a golden ratio in my calculator, checked once, then twice.

How to even begin this one!—but on the theme of friendship, for each time I write a piece, it is in spirit more fiery and controversial, more revealing and personal, more Hellish and perhaps a bit more Divine than the last. And I think!—that each of my friends, to whom I send my work, shall cast me off, a man-who-fell-too-soon, who had potential and ideas sound and pure, and who lost his way, like bold and brave Othello of Shakespeare!

It surprises me, each time, that not only do some people read my work—but that they read and respond, and they speak to me still, and I am not an outcast in their mind, but part of the life they lead, even if with me they should take some issue.

Thus, did I thought a friend of mine lost!—with whom I had worked on the Cosmos SDK, a man of deep religious principle, who warned me of the dangers of violence and vengeance, who to me suggested I forgive my parents and my enemies, and to love and show kindness dear to this world I claim as my own.

Not the Cosmos SDK itself, although I did contribute a line or two, in my time—nothing useful, I should add, though I tried—but a project using it, and did I reflect, and wonder, that in my bridge, perhaps, should I discard the Cosmos SDK? For, if I had lost him as a friend, I could not keep one thing held us together, and then must I go and write a bridge from scratch!—consensus, and p2p layer, and staking and validators, and all kinds of creatures and mysteries not in-scope for a mere bridge!

And I reflected, and I said the Cosmos SDK is “good enough” for my needs, for in each of the principles, I agree, and if I should do it slightly different in my execution, then they did it well enough, and I care not for such trivialities and minutiae.

Thus, did I try to win back my friend—and he told me that it would not be Christian of him to discard me for but a view or principle I hold!—and what power and wonder of spirit, I could not imagine, for I am like a Demon sent from Hell, who looks upon the Earth and scorches all that he sees, unsatisfied and hungry and malcontent.

But do I not know it!—for I wrote about it earlier, but I believe one meaning of life is the number 42, and it is the beginning of the death of libido, and before it, one golden ratio prior, is 26, my current age, and the peak of libido! And before that, 16, youth and its beginning, and 10, the seed planted—when the American system begins sexual education in the classrooms, at least.

What, so in my prime—and I have gone three years without feasting upon the body of a woman, and I am starving, starving so, and few people know what it feels like!—Mike Tyson, perhaps, who went five years, and began biting the ears off his opponents. And what shall it look like!—when my wrathful libido quells, and should I lose the fiery spirit, at least I had one in the first place, and let it run wild and hardly restrained, checked merely by the sight and ideal of females and my friends.

Held together loose, is this reality of mine!—and in each writing, do I think I lose it all.

And Christ, like the Cosmos SDK, is “good enough” in religion, and there is no need to try and innovate on something so Heavenly, so Divine!—oh, I could hardly touch Him, and as I lead Him about a prisoner in my mind, does He yield and submit so gracefully, so delicate, so tender! Oh, yes I love Christ, and I am a Christian, and my poetic nonsense and the flames of my intellect—one must please forgive and chalk up to years of sexual frustration and libido unfulfilled!

Ah, Forgive Me, Dear Creator of Mine! And Christ is higher than the Cosmos SDK, but do I love the latter, too, and wish to pay my debts!

One must know, then, that those I mention, do I love or despise, and perhaps both—because I have my own gut and it is strong and conservative, and I spit and curse and cast spells and wage wars in my mind, the wizard and the King in this lonely Universe of my head, just to make this cold world move, to spin and dance, and show signs of life!

And I said I was a genius, and did nobody blink, and King of this and that, and nobody moved a muscle, and I wonder what it would take just to provoke a reaction out of somebody, oh, oh, all of this and more!—and I feast upon the labors of one thousand lofty souls, and nobody sits at my banquet besides myself!

What a lonely fucking world!—and there is no one to share, so I turn to the greats, and I rise to their level, and tear them down, and no image stands, but that of Christ, and His alone, is the ideal I shall meet and maintain, that I chew up and spit out, digested, and blessed, and perhaps slightly refined, with a twist and contribution of my own.

For I preached violence!—and I preach it yet, and libido and lust, and the wrath of Jove, and the pursuit of Heavenly virtue, and this and that, and the other, shall I let them fall to the Earth like thunderbolts from Heaven, Godly is my power and grace, masculine and feminine at once, and all of mankind put together, could hardly equal the strength of this soul.

Could you just feel into my mind but a moment!—and you should drown and live one thousand lives and deaths, and there are bombs and warheads everywhere, the lights so bright to be scintillating, in this my brilliance, and do I have conversations with aliens, and recognize it, and totally schizophrenic, of course, off-the-charts in this madness-turned-genius-turned-once-again-Christian.

It is a process of discovery, is Christianity, and in this, then, let me pay another debt—for it is to the Spanish master Cervantes, to whom I owe the idea of the mirror. Oh, look at us, humanity!—and we never see ourselves the way another would, and it is a curse most eternal and profound, and he, Cervantes, is a writer my equal, along with Shakespeare, and he sings and dances, too.

For he is so profound!—what infinite depth and flavor, and we laugh, and laugh, at the figure of Don Quixote, yet we, perhaps, are he himself—who know not what we look like, nor how we appear to God or higher beings.

What shall I write about, when I am old and grey, drained of the rigor of youth?—but I am just as the athletes I admire, and my life shall be shorter, and in this pursuit of philosophy of mine, have I only written for two weeks, and I wonder, shall my career be much shorter than theirs?

We schizophrenics never plan to live long lives, and to have each day, aware and sane, is the highest of blessings, and to God, do I owe it all, and to Him, shall I repay my debts, one sin at a time, until is the slate of my heart clean and sound, and I may return to my golden slumber.