I am eating a bowl of white rice doused with sriracha sauce
when the familiar thought comes over me
that I could die at any moment, and the vast majority of humankind would be unaware and unaffected
it strikes me as funny, in that moment, that this thought doesn’t visit me more often.
of course, it is not adaptive to think that way.
yesterday my mind was alight with nootropics
attuned both to my environment and the tasks at hand
rid of such meandering nihilistic diversions with nothing more than five hundred milligrams of a faintly citrus-smelling fluffy powder,
purchased legally on the internet,
taken twice daliy.
today I am more certain than ever that I should take the drugs as much as I can.
there is nothing sacred in defaults
there is nothing sacred in listlessness
and there is nothing sacred in evenings spent drinking bourbon in front of a computer screen.
I probably would not have written this were I in that artificially heightened state,
one might argue,
but there is nothing sacred about this poem
and there is nothing sacred about a fear of otherness, dressed in romanticist rags,
and to unpack this facile definition of “artifice” is exactly the kind of task my nootropized mind would do with pleasure.
I am a human being
sitting on a chair for hours every day
rid me of these idiot shackles of evolution
or else let’s burn it all down and go back to the plains
but man is a bridge, not an end
and we are buckling under our own weight.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s