The Bridge of Commas

Life is a most unfortunate hereditary disease, and is often fatal. Homo sapiens, Latin for clever man, don’t seem so wise to me. Bi-pedal, walking atrocities. Smiling all along as they preach and fuck and eat and sleep and lie. What at all, in an insane world ruled by insane men, is there to do to arrive at sensation of the senses? Drugs? Sex? Food? Religion? Rubbish. Everybody wants to suffer. It’s the fucking trend these days, yeah? Emo, depressed, yeah, you’re so deep and thoughtful. Your eyeliner proves this.

They wish to suffer and they do. They wish like me to be the killer of their own dreams; and yet accept no responsibility for their actions or their deeds and cite instinct; they cite that which pervades them as the cause of their actions and also the judge of them as well. When deep down I’d like to work a regular job and have a normal family life, I’d rather suffer and be poor than delude myself with that satanistic sort of ego gratification. What is capitalism? Glorified satanism in the guise of being under God. Satisfy yourself; satisfy your ego; that’s all you’ve got to do to make it in modern America. Help them make the tower of babble.

For some time now I’ve had severe pains in my chest. My psychiatrists tell me that it comes from anxiety. If anxiety is powerful enough to cause bleeding ears, chest pains, insomnia, hallucinations, and vertigo, then, to me, it is more powerful than god. Why do people do what they do? Devil anxiety pulls them. It pulls me. I stay still and let it pull.

It is those that wish to help me that I hate the most; and for whom I have the most contempt and respite. There is also, no way in which this ailment of mine could be treated, so I must live in discomfort and constant shaking and shy shivering and sleepless drawn out nights with my petty minded delusions of grandeur and my gradually receding sense of dignity. Either this or morphine. And my morphine fund drives always fell because you fuckers are cheap.

I feel I must be honest and admit I have no sense of dignity or shame. I feel spite for myself, and in this spite I find suffering. Each day I wake up and look around at my walls and wonder if they were built to keep me in, or I was built for them tkeep them looking fly. But this is of course, but a trivial matter to you put forth by some easily dismissible madman of the common age and victim of the counter-culture that brought you such nostalgic favors as LSD and amnesty.

I am in utter shame of myself and the way in which I’ve conducted my ideas and thoughts. And this, these babblings or what you might take them for, are in no respect an embarrassing attempt at appealing myself to you; nor is it by this action I try to justify myself or my existence. Because I cannot, and if given the chance, probably would not. Nec spe, nec metu.

In my suffering I find some sort of escape; and in this sense, it would seem as though I enjoy it in a way. This town, poor and meager, produces what seems to be human beings of moderate or little worth to the world at large. Like me. A generation of worthless people walking aimlessly around the ruins of their modern civilizations wondering where all the happy faces went. The happy faces are standing behind a counter making their puppeteers rich each time they click clack their god machine open and ring out a piece of paper detailing exactly how they forced you to take it in the ass. Day by day I see people walk by with dirty clothes and dirty feet, without shoes, with lots of pointless ideas and likewise unfulfilled dreams that spiral out as they approach their senseless doom. These people, obviously, are cursed with dreams. I guess I used to dream too.

Though my dreams are not to appeal to anyone; nor are they to appease my natural senses or in vain effort to justify my life or ideas. I do not wish to fulfill these desires. I don’t wish for anything. I just want to know everything.

It has been some time since I had the knowledge of better-than-thou holy types forced down my throat. Instead I’ve fed on history and philosophy which seems to roll backwards to me as I go forward in evolution. I think of school.

In these imagination killing cupboard rooms I learned something important in my early life; that I wanted to teach. But what have I to teach? Nothing then and nothing now. A voice, simply, and one that bears no particular importance at all. It would seem, from atop a canyon looking down upon me as a bird would, that all of these words stem from true disgust.

That’s not so, nor is it my poor intention to communicate with words my distaste for civilization and civility. I don’t want to communicate anything. I just want to communicate.

It is these people that lounge about me day-in-day-out which instills inside me a particular shame for all I see. Indignity, the joy of personal suffering, the spiting of the empty headed hearty folk that try to net you with superficial compliments and pointless conversation. It is in this that I find indignity; and a remote quality as if the person speaking is not a human being at all and rather a simulation of a conscious breathing creature full of juice and bias goodness walking around like a wind-up toy in a hedge maze looking for some cheese that isn’t there at all. They do this, and in this act I see such futility and respite; and in this respite I write these words.

I am not afraid of that which I cannot do – rather that which I know I can do. I fear the outcome of what I could do to others. I instead restrain myself to nature and its unforgiving laws of survival and intelligence. Intelligence, to me, never seemed to be a particularly necessity of natural survival. Though I could see advantages of early humans possessing intelligence and the ability to think their way ’round nature’s folly. I do not consider myself intelligent either; and would not, could not, until I know everything I need to know.

I am disgusted and I always have been. Commercials disgust me. They disgust me in the way in which necessities of survival are trivialized by a society dependent upon the intelligence they shun for the pointless shit they need to live the already pointless lives they waste away in many malls and coffee houses roundwards throwing classics of literature in some vain attempt to appear to be something other than a self occluded biped. We are this biped; I am this biped. I know it and I deny it at the same time. The shame I feel is the collected shame of a suppressed generation of happy cows grazing in their happy meadows blissfully unaware, like me, of the situation outside the pasture and those who control the grass. Fuck the grass and those who control the grass. I’d rather not eat than be a cow.

For years I wished to be an inanimate object; perhaps to find some sort of peace or simplicity. Then, for ages and a day, I fancied that I should be happy to become an ant or insect and happily serve away to a queen I never see, nor remember. I do not wish to know who it is I serve as this ant. I wish not for her happiness, nor for her care. That is the same way I feel of god.

Nature is the overseer – and we, like those little bugs, and like the bugs we are, are happily grazing in the happy fields she, with infinite generosity, bestowed upon us. But of course, it is our nature to ruin it as best we can and by omission never allow the future of our world and man to unearth our culture and think of us as we really are; rather by omission, false bridges made of words.

What do I want you to see? That’s what I think when I write. Writers wish for readers to see a reflection of what they see. With these words I create a reflection of a person; the reflection of the person I think I am, and think I should be, but in my heart of hearts, never can be.

There is no such thing in this world as civility; it is those in the most proper uniforms of the highest rank of social stature that is guilty of the most atrocity. Not the peasants on the street that beg for food or kill because they have to. These are the people that kill with a smug sense of self gratification as they push the buttons that end up tearing people from the face of the earth. They smile and they justify their sin in riddles like we all do, from one form unto another always in their cunning way, like a sly fox in a hen house justified by mass opinion and opinion polls in which decree those who must live and those who must die. These are the vilest human beings. Not the gangsters in the slums that kill or be killed, but those with the power to stop it that allow it to happen as long as their platter is silver and their opinion by the flock under them is ordained.

I torment myself on purpose. It is my own crime to be myself, and also, my own punishment. But there is a certain joy I get in holding reservation regarding my own suffering. I lavish in it, roll in it, and expedite anyone to claim greater suffering. I put myself on a pedestal I don’t wish to be on. I wish to crawl down; but from this little peak – I can see the water that I need to be in. I’m afraid of it too. Afraid of being unafraid of it. I make the water nice and clear and make it for myself to swim in. But as I climb down from my self appointed pedestal – my mind puts imaginary crocodiles in the water to scare and terrify me. It is in this quiet misery and uneasiness that I lavish. It kills me and it revitalizes me. They say I am a madman, they say I should be locked away. So be it, let me be. They say I am a babbling lunatic. So it goes.

In this particular fancy I never regarded myself as anything more than human, or average human, rather I felt compelled, by some pervasive element, to continue in discourse. I talked myself around all my problems and with words I distanced myself from flesh and reality and built up myself a wall to keep others out. And indeed, in the end, to keep myself out. I do not envy myself. I do not envy those that might envy me for some pathetic word generated reason. Consciousness is our greatest weakness; because with it, we can manipulate ourselves more so than others into believing we are just in our natural resolve. In our natural resolve, to survive and reproduce like rats, we have a binding consciousness to this ability; the binding consciousness that always, in this instance, insists that we abide by a learned moral imperative. And it is this imperative, that we allow to drive us further and further into self delusion regarding the consequences of our conscious acts. They say I am a madman. So it goes.

So it goes, indeed, to suggest a man so wrapped up in his own mind he can’t, without resorting to logic, do the most natural of all activities. To go to the washroom, or to the lavatory, and perform natural duties like the other animals do. Our greatest advantage, consciousness, has in these modern times turned into a weapon grander than anything from science, and also a weakness far outreaching the condemning aspects of unconscious automata; such as cats, and mice, and little bitty ants. These ants are us. And long have I sat in silence by myself above a hill of ants admiring. In complete admiration of their simple and resolute servitude. I envy these creatures; and in fact, in many of my books there are areas concentrated specifically on smaller, or less intellectually apt, animals and insects. I admire them and they fascinate me. I have strived to be an animal; to be a being of less consciousness, and at times I have even repeatedly slammed my head against the wall of my room to decrease my consciousness as much as possible. My body is a stinky pile of flesh carrying something more than blood and guts. There’s some glimmer of existence in my biped body; and it is this I wish to discover. I wish to figure out what it is; this unconsciousness element that pervades my fleshy action and my fleshy words. They say I am a fool and a hypocrite. So it goes.

e are beasts; we are liars; I am a liar and I am a beast. You may think that I write this to amuse, or to gain sympathy, and that is not the case at all. I write this for the same reason an ant drags a leaf across a playground, for the same reason an unthinking bird builds a nest. Is this a logical choice that I have made and from events around me deduced, or is it something else entirely? A natural inclination bore from my pervasive will and insanity, which forces me into such situations? And if this is to be assumed as fact, gentleman, then it must also be taken into consideration the self-depreciating abasement of our own will. The natural inclinations and drives that we deny in order to report to our modern society; we perform our action with the utmost justification for them and in our bleeding hearts believe them to be right; to be just; to be of no particular crime. But to others on the face – this is to them crime and to us they must appeal to their particular moral imperative. It is this moral imperative that brings human beings into conflict. They say I am an amoral deviant. So it goes.

Earlier, in the early morning hours, I did something atrocious. My cat, whom I dearly love, was sitting on my lap asleep. I was petting her, and trying to communicate to her some sort of affection; so that maybe I could get her to feel for me as I did for her. She turned over and crawled up my chest. And I had my nose right to hers, nuzzling with her and smiling and happy, and I went to pick her up and must have, by accident of course, pinched her in a way that hurt her. Out of reflex, with no ill intention or malice or forethought hatred, she scratched my face. And I, out of reflex too, after being scratched, took her under her furry little arms and shook her violently. “No!” I said as I shook her. And then, I looked into her eyes; she had no idea why I was hurting her. No idea why I had taken to shaking her violently back and forth. Seeing this, seeing her vacant face so full of simplicity and beauty, I drew her back to my chest. Sometimes I believe people feel this way about the forces that shake them.

Nature, in all respects, writes the rules for which God himself in all his anonymous glory takes credit. I appeal to him, to her or to it, and I wait. I wait for 22 years and the more I learn the more I suffer and the more I suffer the better I feel. I write this now, too, in sheer misery of all my senses. And someone, probably you who reads with your sense of supposed superiority, may believe that I feel sorry for myself. I do not. I have nothing to say but I speak anyway. Just that someone might come and listen for a bit. Today I talked to a beggar for hours in the street. He was a scruffy, stub nosed little man, meager and weathered. Cracks circled up under his dark eyes, his hat tossed on his greasy mop sloppily. And he came to me and asked if I had enough money to loan him so that he might purchase a cigarette. I looked at him and wanted to laugh; but before I could laugh, something strange seized me. I wanted to cry. I asked: the side. “What happened in your life? What went wrong? What is wrong? Let me help you. What do you need?” He looked at me and said, “I need 25 cents for a cigarette.” So it goes.

After I gave this man a pack of cigarettes I sat in my car, gripping at the wheel as the other people passed. I view them all with a curiosity, a curious bit of sadness and I play out their lives in my head. Transactions, dreams, hope, frailty. The old man, probably in his sixties, maybe even seventies, made me hate myself a great deal. I thought of my menial wealth and petty luxuries, my computer and my wall of uselessness lined about my boarded up room and windows. I was satisfied with my bullshit.

I barricade my door. I know nobody is coming but I barricade it anyway. I have black trash bags over my windows because the sun is too bright. but it’s easier than going into public life. Fuck that noise. I can’t pay attention to people when they talk to me. I understand them, and respond, but am simply not there.

I watch as people busy themselves about their lives and jobs. They look a lot like ants. I watch them tie their shoes, wipe their noses, smile and scratch their face and brush their teeth. This is how I accept them: simple creatures doing simple things. These moments interest me more than anything in drama or fiction. This makes me ill. I make myself ill. They think I must be crazy. So it goes.

In my early years, and though one could argue that I am still young, I should’ve liked to fancy myself a genius; and to facilitate this I needed only to surround myself with fools. Or human beings I thought that I was superior to. These people, yes – people, that I supposed superiority over were far more noble and according to nature than I. I liked to think I was superior in mental capabilities so I could use this to blur out my inability to manage and maintain regular social situations. So, to be readily dismissed as out there or some other trite phrase meaning nothing, I fancied myself quite clever for so long. And then I found a form of cleverness that human beings would die for; a cleverness that we human beings with all our tiny science cannot achieve: inner peace. A cat is of far greater intelligence than a human being. But, you’d say, a cat cannot count to four. Or to three or six or anything. Can’t add, can’t talk; and neither are necessary adjuncts of natural and peaceful survival. How stupid is a cat that lays about in the sun all day, loved and absolutely taken care of and adored, while you slave about in kitchens and tidy this and that while the cat simply lays about in indulgence? The cat is far superior in terms of intelligence to the human being that serves the cat. I have a cat. I serve my cat. My cat is smarter than me and she knows it. So it goes.

But one could say – what of all our science and our technology and our abstract thought and philosophy? And to that, I would say, how happy has all of this made us? Human beings are the only animals capable of making synthetic medicines and human beings are the sickest animals on the planet. And why, with all our medicine and miracle drugs, are we sick? Because we allow our gene pool to pass defective genes and hereditary illness; and through this sickness, in our species, perpetuates. The laws of nature favor the strong and the intelligent. The laws of man protect the weak and the stupid so that the weak and the stupid may also breed and bring about more weak and stupid children into this already stagnant gene pool. We opt for the quick fix with our illness instead of what other animals do. Other animals allow nature to run its course and do not attempt to alter nature in the way we do. We’ve allowed ourselves to be perpetually sick and weak, and we look for a cure to sustain this. To sustain the weak and the stupid we create our miracle drugs that stop the natural defense mechanisms of the body and in the end we all get weak and we all get stupid. I am weak and I am stupid. So it goes.

Though I have an extreme loathing for life and its foulness, I choose it simply because of the lack of a better option. I tolerate it. I should revel in my time and waste not a moment. But what do I in my arrogance attempt to do? I attempt to write. To share my ideas, as if they’re ideas worth sharing in the first place. But, it is my only real hope, though I lied and said I had no hopes for myself, which in my death people can chance across these words and find me alive and still talking. Talking is the bane of my existence, along with breathing and all that other non-sense.

I am the wisest man alive. For in addition to knowing that Socrates knew nothing – I also know that I know nothing. Though in reality, I’m not wise at all. I sit around with friends and speak with an affluent vocabulary perhaps, and moderately articulate, but at night I lay awake in shame and in fever. In indignity. I have no dignity in the usage of these words because of how I learned them. It was my punishment, when attending public schooling, to copy words from A-Z out of the dictionary as punishment. I needed to be punished; and they punished me by teaching me. Which is, of course, the harshest punishment of all. But, I did learn something quite valuable from attending public school. And, that was: there is nothing valuable to learn while attending public school.

Life is a dreaming man’s imagination, led when he too restful to stay asleep plays out a mirror life. And then, once tired enough to carry on, goes about his normal life. These are two different states, for in sleep one says ‘I’m too rested to stay asleep, I must awake.’ And from that comes all this space and time nonsense. For in our own life we retain but peculiar glimmers of an abstract and unconscious mind, and in this we postulate and think of this and that. And to a man alive in dream, his glimmering unconscious imagination is our life entire. In which drips of an invading real slips through in small degrees. But when it comes down to it – we, like mice and rats, have absolutely no idea. And consciousness, that grand enemy, forces us to find something. Some little man made boat that can carry us up to our man made heaven. And in this synthetic heaven we find a curious dilemma; life becomes a hell in order to appease the need for heaven.

We are all rats inside a living maze; chasing a glimmering piece of imaginary cheese. And we, like these squirmy rats, have no idea why we’re trapped inside this material or organic, maze; but we like rats, we know we have something to seek. Something to seek. Something in which our inabilities can be challenged, and maybe even conquered. Or like little moths reflexively fluttering up to a speck of manmade light they approximate as heaven. And in this little bit of heaven they find hell; for the light, to them their tiny heaven, will burn them to death like a tiny hell. Their pervasive will, and unconscious imperative, forces them to their night-time death from birth. Like a robotic form of unconsciousness, we too emulate this behavior. And like these little rats and these hapless moths flutter to our own tiny bit of heaven, and a curious hell born out of our own peculiar unconscious. To a man asleep his dream is a waking world.

Heaven, for man, was created like lights for moths and cheese for rats. Though, in sadness, I must write that this is the certain tragedy of mankind: we look for imaginary cheese. An imaginary glimmering of light on a man made horizon. I say man made because I believe each man creates his own approximation of heaven and of hell. And if it is created, thusly, it must be synthetic. And if we, too, have been created and dropped into a maze like we drop rats, we too are synthetic in a sense of the word. The word, likewise, is a construct of our own conscious world. It is a tragedy that in this writing I will be construed by others as a man of mental illness. This is a dismissive claim; it could be easier said that I’m a confused rat. Looking about the walls of my maze and wondering who dropped me here. And dually, how to find my way to that piece of cheese at the end.

You see me like I see the world; not as it really is, as it is described by words and images. A mere reflection like a world inside a snow globe. I am seen in the same way a mirror above the earth would be seen. Is an animate reflection as real as real?

Would you be wrong if you called me a duck? Or an ant? No, if I was perceived, optically only as I am, I could be anything within the realm of thought-association; your error would only be in word association and not in the means by which I am optically perceived. I am a duck; I am an atomic structure and can only be perceived as such. The classification of my atomic structure is associated with words, and therefore in the same reluctance of perception ascribed a word to which my physical structure can be associated.

Structures in nature are as they are; not as they are within the realm of association. We think in terms of words, in terms of English; and the images in our heads are word associated images. So, everything seems as if it’s in the head; as if meaning is in the head. There is an infinite quality in this supposition, demonstrated thusly:

You have in supply an infinite number of ping-pong balls. In front of you is a barrel, of infinite volume, into which you throw the balls. Each ball is labeled by a natural number, lined up in such an order. There is one ping-pong ball for each natural number. You first throw in ball 1, then ball 2, then ball 3, etc. after you throw in ball 10, you remove ball 1 from the barrel. After ball 20, you remove ball 2. After you throw in ball 30, you take out ball 3, and so on. This experiment lasts a duration of one minute. For the first 30 seconds, you throw in the first 10 balls, after which point there are 9 balls left in the barrel. For half of that time — 15 seconds — you throw in the next 10 balls (ball 11 through ball 20), after which there are 18 balls remaining in the barrel. In the next 7.5 seconds, you throw in the next ten, after which there are 27 balls remaining in the barrel, and so on. After a minute, the experiment ends, and you take note. The question is as follows: at the end of the experiment, how many ping-pong balls are in the barrel?

We are these ping pong balls.

I feel like an elevator trying to go sideways when attempting to communicate with people.

Published by

Brandon K. Nobles

Brandon is an author, poet and head writer for Sir Swag on YouTube. With 630k subscribers. Since February 2021 he has written for the most important and popular series, News Without the Bulls%!t and the least popular work on the channel, History Abridged. Brandon joined the channel in late January, since then his work has been featured every month in News and History. His novels and works of fiction have also been well received, and he continues to be a proficient and professional chess player. In his spare time he like to catch up on work.

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