reading about writing and the modern man’s religion.

I read more about reading than I read.

I read more about writing than I write.

What does that say about me?

The religion of the modern man is not one of self denial or reflection. It’s not as some would say, hedonistic with a bit of balance.

It is end game. It’s the destruction of all in it’s path. To make way for nothing. To raise up nothing. It is not a toast at the end of the night nor is it a falling star. But a meme.

A meme of piranhas not poltergeist. A painting with a blank landscape.

I feel, but this is not my downfall.

I want. And this is my crutch.

I need. And this is my turncoat.

What can a man be, if he can’t even be the thing? If a man can only morph into what is not. Then how could he ever become what is.

This is my dilemma. I am not alone. I have brothers. And sisters. There’s a full moon tonight and my neck is starting to itch.