ThePoeticPaladin

And I say it's exactly what you, the Reader, say it is, with two exceptions:

1) Everyone who disagrees with you is slightly more wrong about Reality than you believe they are.

2) I am slightly more important to the fabric of existence than you believe I am.

(Image credit: Some guy on 4chan/x/ who deleted his post after I replied to it.)

And that's the thing you fuckers have to get into your skulls!

It isn't WORDS. Words are just the part of your thoughts you choose to express!

ABRAKADABRA means more than you can possibly ever knwo. (fnord)

And it begins at the tip of your tongue and it extends to your electron-flow.

For every word of mine that you experienced, there are a hundred billion unexpressed.

Every one of them has been processed and refined before reaching your ears, your eyes, your lips.

The Men in Black speak on behalf of YHWH.

You better feel called out, I'm talking to YOU. The holy ghost provides me with my words, that I might grok rightly and speak directly to those who have ears to hear and eyes to see.

Your feelings make your thoughts, your thoughts make your beliefs, your beliefs create what you bear witness to.

There was a time, longer ago than it feels, when I would find my own writing lying around the house and worry that I was a madman. I'd read my own writing and have no recollection of making it, and that past version of myself would think "Is this me? How did I make this? I don't remember writing this... These don't even feel like my words, though I recognize the handwriting, this is better than anything I could write. Am I possessed?".

That time is, of course, long passed. I have matured, I have grown to know myself, I understand myself now better than at any previous point in time. But still, I am always learning and grokking myself more fully. This was realized moments ago when I found a pair of scissors out of place. "Why are you here? Why are you covered in white stuff? What the- Oh wait."

You see, in that moment I recalled that last night, I'd cut a yogurt container in half so the family dog could lick it clean. It was a small thing, done in the moment, and so I had failed to commit it to memory. And so-in I grokked more rightly the nature of memory, and the fact that memories are only of relevance when recalled; there is no need to recall the act of writing. It is the act of reading that brings closure to the process.

I still gotta clean those yogurt scissors, btw.