Stream of Consciousness

If only this faggot would post something besides these goddamn instagram whores — I swear to high heaven, if I see another quirky chick with her hair dyed jet black and cut in this Catherine-Zeta-Jones pseudo-bowl-cut with bangs that remind me of my ex, I'm going to reach into the silverware drawer, pick out a butter knife, and start jabbing myself in the hand until I pass out from either shock or blood loss. It's bad enough spending a solid hour out of every day on this shit board without seeing ten thousand duplicates of the dumb, overly sentimental liberal arts major I used to feel everything for. All of it at once. Compassion, contempt, bewilderment. I'd never been such a complete person until I'd started sharing myself with her, and I doubt I'll ever be so complete again. Going on like this, in this shit world, on this shit board, with no way to stop being my shit self, it's a waste. And every time I see someone who reminds me even remotely of her, I remember that. I wish I had the stomach to seriously consider suicide. But I don't. So I'll keep coming here, where a lot of people with whom I share an interest will misinterpret everything I say and call me a faggot, and see pictures like this once a day.

Please try to convince me that it really is better to have loved and lost.

why should I? I'm no Joyce, no pinecone, no Wallace. There is little chance ill ever be the author of the next lit meme. So why do it at all. My prose is terrible, my thoughts are worse. I am become Veeky Forums destroyer of books.

Qué extrano ez que estos gringos o euros o de donde sean, al rato latinos o quiza espanoles, no hagan un stream of conciousness al uso (mirese su buena ortografia, por dios). En mi opinion el stream of conciousness es como un pistoletazo largo, un pistoletazo infinito, uno que nunca deja de sonar, rugido que nunca se hace rumor.

Pero no, ellos opinan que el stream of conciousness es escribir selectivamente lo que se te viene a la cabeza. Creo. No se. Al rato estoy equivocado. No importa. Igual seguro alguien me tira mierda por este post.

and all my love

Not bad. Was very good up until the "Multiple reasonings" bit, then it weakened. You have an interesting poetic voice, however; or, you could, if you worked at it.

...

you like that, don't you

What are you getting at?

"I AM." Was God trying to unravel the man when He said this to him? How many days, weeks, years, could a person spend pulling at the threads of this infinitely miniscule riddle? I mean, was Solomon pulling at it? Was Tyre? Did the Masons come forth as the manifestation of frustration born of the incessant pondering of this self-affirming labyrinth? Borges' desert would have been nicer, but I'm not mad. I love it, really. The heady, angst-inducing sickness of it all. Of it ALL. Life. One giant riddle - and the big joke, the grand finale: I am. Not I am, but that I am, and that I am that I am. I am in the midst of it, and the relation relates itself to itself and to its own relation within an infinite array of relations all reflecting back - jeeringly, mockingly, at the manifestation of our indefatigable weakness. Mind. Hah! What a load of cahooey! If it isn't a joke that we render ourselves as gods among men among gods, I'm not sure what is.

Not only will you die a martyr but you will die an icon. A drunk misunderstood icon who will be whispered in hushtones but whispered nonetheless. Bastards in bars in the nineteenth district drinking Jagermeister when you can't even afford wine mixers who the hell are you. Politics will elude you. The world is ending Nd the only coherent thought is that they now mass produce chocolate Twinkies goddamnit I need to withdraw from an atm. Read more write more sob more fuck

we are born with nothing in our hearts and spend our lives desperately trying to find a nothing to fill it with before we give up and call the nothingness god

Your shot was blown before the shot was even loaded. Pounding headache more Tylenol less adderall. Deadlines approaching more adderall less sleep. Weekend comes more sleep more Tylenol. A vicious cycle only breaks when the clockmaker decides that the time has come. Porcelain foreheads and rubber ribcages are the only difference. Pretending to be something you are not will lead the scholars of the future on Byzantine paths to eventually find out you weren't that important. Your house of cards will cave then and before that you will have positioned a throne made of Sterling silver on the roof of your real house, not giving a shit if the HOA kicks you out even though you run the damn thing. You are not the leviathan, you were the leviathan. You can be something, but alas you build yourself up to be nothing. Keep dreaming of the young girl. Keep forgetting her when the cycle resets. Load your gun, load your glass, unload your mind. Nothing matters and everything is omnipresent. Sisyphus would gladly cringe at your state but nothing matters except for everything. You aren't a nihilist but the god you cling to has told you it's time we see other people. Word count escalates as your mental state decimated. You will never be Charles Dickens. On the flip side your nephew will never be made fun of again for being slow at reading old English in front of his class. Projection projection projection is the mantra of mental real estate owners. Timeshares in the mind of Prussian philosophers and in the pages of Hermann Hesse. Do they hold their resale value upon later visits? Can you resell or cash out in gold bullion that will never be worth what you paid for it and will leave you dead and worthless? Will you drown yourself in the pool of your Malibu mansion with the safe you kept your Opus manuscript in, the copy too soggy to read when the police drag you out reluctantly? Fuck me I need to stop.

What would a perfect utilitarian world look like? What is the logical end to maximizing beneficial outcomes? If all life is mortal, does that imply that there is always more suffering than any potential benefit? If that is true, does that mean that the perfect and most ideal utilitarian world would be void of any life at all? I know there are many criticisms of utilitarianism but I haven't seen answers to these questions which I find most interesting.

I think this exercise is really revealing how much Satanically self-destructive undertones are present in the general human psyche. Not only in your work, but also in mine, and in others. What's the cure? Meditation? Waking-mindfulness? Conscious thought control? Meditation on Scripture? On "The Good?" I don't know - not yet, but I'm certain, or, rather, I feel certain - like, way, deep, deep down somewhere in the pit of my self, taught and twisted between mind and body in a knot so dense I could never unravel it this plot can be addressed. Who's plot? I'm not really sure? Satan's? Man's? It may be a plot born more of the flow of time than anything else - the cycles of man or summat. Now I see him clearly: old Cronus, dark, ruddy, ruby-red really, and as leathery and burgeoning as an over-aired basketball, standing in the clouds, filled with rage, and lifting up the great jagged scythe which castrated twice-old Sky in a fell swoop foretelling our infinite castration in the deep within - a hollow shadow of a Chasm long forgotten, and a remnant of a soul which never sleeps, never keeps faith, and is always Rival. So do you see it to? Or is this gaping would, as old as Time Himself, a mere figmented phantasy, the bastardization of a greedy child too long at play, not long for the fields - working, working?

Kek. My grammar went down the gutter the more I went with the stream. Apologies.

>ez
>extrano
>opinión sin tilde
>éste sin tilde designando algo previo
>ortografía, absolutamente obvia al ser esdrujula, también sin tilde

Además de la imbecilidad de argumento que postulaste por favor, que verguenza leerte beaner.

Fue intencional, imbécil. Vete a leer el puto monólogo de Molly Bloom en Ulysses y mira qué tan correcta es la puntuación.
>que verguenza
qué*
;)

>Pensar que se debe acentuar "que" cuando no se conjuga en una oración interrogativa
>Leer Ulysses en absolutamente cualquier otra cosa que no sea el lenguaje original

pretending_to_be_retarded.jpg

Que avergonzante aparentar ser bien leído.

lava flowing out of hollowed eye sockets, beautiful, more beautiful than it should be, puts the stars to shame

Thought cannot be controlled. When I attempt to force an idea into existence the unconscious is weighed down with an entirely different, unrealized idea – begging for manifestation. Only when I allow my mind to be blank (and resist the screams of every metaphysical phenomenon I’ve experienced, deathly frightened of being forgotten) does the unconscious thought bring itself forth. When I attempt to control the river of thought, even the gentlest of streams can become rapids. A mental state which is most unpleasant, and results in hours of anxiety. But this struggle has a flame that forges the sharpest blade. The idea that emerges from the chaos not only grants tranquility, but is stronger for the battle it had to fight to achieve manifestation.

pissing floor eating sandwich on desk stacked book pile small notes yellow with pencil shit thread shit board shit site no life fuck women hard dick for me you leave.

I can't keep up with any of my thoughts, and it seems to me that my ideas become tainted by over consideration when I attempt to record them properly.

im dying of a thirst but just like the water here in this town I can't allow myself to drink that repulsive water. im dying of a mighty thirst but I won't let myself quench toward decadent illusions riddled with mediocrity. Instead I'll continue to eat from the trash of ideology, I'm well feed but boy am I dying of a thirst.

The time has now come for me to write down these words unfolded by the shackles of degeneracy and self fulfilling social prophecies amongst the lambs of kicking honesty and Facebook fuckwitry teeming with idolater spheres of rabbit proof holes and humid snake oil games played out like a million sun's having their big fat clocks suckled like cheetos into oblivion forever and the fact is that none of you scmucks will dare to really look at the gaps between these words with the incredulity that they deserve in order to save yourselves from the weight of spjntaneous giving and life affirming nonchalance preferring instead to wallow in your own bigoted piles of creamy shite and slimy wastes from the depths of the sewerds of treason and despair and the rush of insincerity combined with breasts and larps and dicks and darts and a willingness to die over absolutely fucking nothing at all until all of us lay screaming like little piglets at dinner time and time again...

should i make another coffee how many coffees have i had today i had two in the morning one at lunch time and another an hour ago i need to sop drinking so much how much caffeine is too much i'll look that up later [name] is being a asshole he doesn't respect me i need to stop being a cuck it makes me unhappy just say no to people stop caring about what they think don't let [him] bully you in front of others i wear the same outfit ever day the same jeans every day they're comfortable though but they're tight i need to keep adjusting them when i sit down my chair is ruining my posture my balls are getting squished are my jeans bad for my balls i hope wearing jeans every day does not have any adverse health effects in the future i dont think it will it wont but maybe it will no my back is crooked i need to improve my posture too i haven't read anything today i need to read more i need to catch up on my goodreads yearly target i want to buy more books but i already have books to read freud is taking too long read it has tiny font does psychoanalysis work it probably doesn't but i think it does in my mind this is bullshit i'm barely conveying my thoughts my thoughts are too complex and fast to convey in writing stream of consciousness what is that stuff wittgenstein said about words i haven't read it i need to improve my vocabulary maybe i can convey my thoughts better then is stupid this is stupid what i wrote sounds stupid

I can't write or can I, do I really have access to 10% of my consciousness or does the myth comfort me to keep my delusions intacts, will I ever be something of importance, what's it like to be something of importance? All what philosophy had taught me is that everything decays meaning and flesh alike, would something decaying mean something just become one consciousness or a bunch decided so, why should we follow their genius, can I not create my genius, or do rules of superiority of biology and genes and environment are final and adamant, back to the oblivion with these, I have so little time on earth, and I'm egoistic and confined inside this sollipsistic prison that is my consciousness just like everyone else, how do I know that for sure? I don't. I can never have enough, none can, not enough knowledge, not enough money, not enough distractions, not enough mastery of the self to balance all the above, we're driven by will to power, but why should we follow the mad man who lost it at the sight of a dying horse, why am I even questioning, what or who allowed me to, what's the point? Should there be a point? Shouldn't there be vaccum, the nothingness that once was untethered has become this, and then there was light then life, and there was pain, am I even sure that this is real, what's real? What's true? Does real and true exist, am I smart enough to trust an answer given by the same entities that created these abstractions I'm questioning, or should I remain ignorant and have less questions and more convictions and plans of A and B I follow. Why follow a path? Why am I so anxious to follow a path and have a detailed mapping of my part in this whole conjecture and scheme of things designed by people like me, for me to belong to them, so anxious, and even depressed, at the thought of failing to have a safe passage into the world of men, and yet would it be so bad if it all had ended and I don't feel hidden motives manipulating me into doing all that. That fimiliar nothingness started creeping again and I don't feel any relevant stream of thoughts, I'm a brute anew, thinking only about basic hedonistic needs, maybe I'll watch TV, then sit to regret that I procrastinate, then I'll brood and reminisce, then be afraid and anxious, and let the present moment feel perpetually, and live in a lonely reality of an uncertain future.

Anal is the smart man's taste for chocolate conquers the vanilla regardless of the rapture of the poopy girl butthole stink yes nora mmmmm delicious, quite pungent, my dear, I get paid in direct deposit now and coke cans fill wine glasses all long the desk. its almost time for me to leave again and be brainless for 8 hours of my life before returning home to poopy girl butthole stink yes yes mmmmm Veeky Forums is a master of deception similar to satan. Nietzsche looks like lennon, and perhaps loved like my dreams of belts that hang from the ceiling, in memorandum of DFW. Memento Mori, bitches.

that's not really what "stream of consciousness" means
t. modernist

"Que" también se debe acentuar cuando se usa de forma exclamativa.

Por ejemplo, al decir:
>Qué verguenza.
>¡Qué pendejo!