Sometimes serious

 it begins at some point your first ever time to have the lonely thought 'these new kids, the children of today' they.. they are not your familiar crust the ratio indifference and posing that you could read in your contemporaries the sound of their sway is certainly not the world today, it feels lonelier somehow it was nothing you did except grow  older not by insistence or by desire but happenstance novelty marginalizes you now you thought you were standing by a changing river but you were getting sucked heinously all this while through the  tubes of a cruel, indifferent vacuum cleaner

 i used to think the transitivity of verbs was like romance i (a subject) take you, or you take me (as an object) defined already through transitivity. i take you (there) or i take (missing) (missing) or i play (the piano) then i thought transitivity of verbs was like valence missing electrons in individual shells,  filled up by an incomprehensible spdf rhyme-scheme then i thought transitivity of verbs was illusory i present (you) with (thing) i present (you) to (infinity) i shower (you) with (love) i pointed (it) at (you) and that i could say i sleep you to dreams or otherwhere illusory. or the sevan kaarak classes i could fit any construction in a new logic i play (you) to (infinity) through (trees) in order (to sleep).   we can just use language however we please really and things that aren't understood now can still feel like something. a new action-class is always just around the next turn from use

 Today i spend time with a child watch their cartoons - their stuffed baby animals their mixed race dolls, their female pilots their pink fluffy bears their coding of social reality and wonder about the discourse of their time. the generational ache of their era that i know will be gazed at, spotted correctly, and  narrativized using the material i see today as text. or as whatever has analytical currency then. i try to peer through my futuristic corneas at the back of my eye, where seers are supposed to see the future,  their gaze aiming at their own minds, try to look at todays material with tomorrows hindight but my eyes aren't in the future.  and what hasn't happened really cannot be told and so we live as fools hoping to string beads of sweat in a garland that we can chant passing, as time goes and our mind looks further and further back trying to find roots for something that was never a tree.

 i am jealous of the seven plant cuttings that i got from my friend one sunday afternoon - a succulent called vicks that smells like a camphor some spotted snake like leaves a chain like cascade with cardoid leaves some needed to be cut exactly somewhere for the severed roots to understand they cannot sprout as leaves on the underside that they are needed to draw water that they used to be something that function is something to perform not something they were. all this for houseplants that wouldn't survive a day in soil outside i perhaps send my hands in this soil hoping they will become roots and my ears someday become leaves.

i remember the day i realized advertising had poisoned everything that i knew the memetic microplastic of my time and decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched from one minute of people meeting at airports the garish climaxes of love and loss and then when my friends left a rube goldberg machine of going away and i decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched by departures at the chaotic trampoline made of  weak elastics of relationships and then the day that i realized  what i read in books is lies and decided to stop feeling emotions to stop being touched by characters that haven't existed in entirely made up worlds like a fever nightmare when you wake up with  your stomach pitted like a peach or an avocado and then the day i realized how inexpensive it is to feel and to cry and decided to stop feeling emotions  or getting attached to my own sorrow which spread occupying my whole sky every time i looked up and the day i realized every choice i made landed m

An unknown heaviness in the air as if each gas was a loaded isotope as if every little bit of water vapour were made instead with deuterium as if your arteries were clogged but  with lead instead of innocent fat. I go into a classroom. A wall of various faces detesting how the idea of education itself is premised upon hope even the criticism premised upon an imagined reuptake of the utopian flavor of control and how teaching criticism feels like an exercise in astrology when all fears come vaguely true in a vague amount of time for a vaguely coherent set of persons. the impossibility of knowing if THIS is dystopia today. is it today at 16.21 o clock? Are we failing to see or seeing too much, and who is scaffolding seeing? Is THIS specific imagination of the end true or is far and how likely would it be for us to survive and where and how far away and how far away from exactly what? Such a time that whole years are like nuclear isotopes of normal minutes loaded with extra neutrons in th