The right packaging can make even the most worthless trash a treasure. Dross up any garbage with shiny wrapping paper and it becomes a gift. Science has shown that observation alone can influence outcome. A rose is not a rose by any other name. We tend to live within the expectations of our labels. Perhaps we cannot help but fill out the bag in which we've been placed.




Perhaps we can.
Perhaps we can plenty.

Love,
the dead minotaur

I will trade you this really good reason for your existential turmoil.


Or we could just go halfsies.
Whatever's clever.

Love,
the dead minotaur

You think you know Matt Rua?
What's that?
You don't?
Well, these guys do.



So they got that on you, I guess.
Please don't beat yourself up about it.
Pretty please.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Ah, the auspicious return of everybody's favorite webseries about not ending the world.


Chicken soup for the ontologically damaged soul.

Love,
the dead minotaur

There's nothing inherently wrong with choosing a rosier outlook on life. Good/bad qualities are all confined to the eye of the beholder while the world outside merely is. A life is filled with so many events, great and large, that, depending on one's own predisposition at the time, only events of a certain emotional type or magnitude will linger in mind over the course of the day, coloring one's mental record with that particular bias. If one chooses to willfully focus on the details that bring about a positive and effective attitude then one would seem to be better off than a mere passive receiver. The inherent risk, of course, is that in choosing what to focus on, one may carry it too far by actively disregarding or ignoring the details that they find disagreeable or inconvenient, leading to a disconnect, mistaking their chosen perception of reality for reality itself, seeing a full bag and presuming that the contents will just be more bag.




Granted, it's all bags anyway when you get down to it.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Can I at least finish my coffee before we talk about this?

Followed *** out of the valley, light wreaking all sorts of nonsense on the oculars. I preferred the shade, the cool winds weeping between damp, vine-choked walls, but lingering any longer would be dangerous, as the valley tends to shut on the cozy and contented and how long since we've been either?
My eyes refuse to adjust to the light. It digs in, warm, gouging. Each step drives it deeper, piercing, and I'm left with the sensation I've been impaled on a beam of light and am merely hanging from it, drifting forward like a gondola, like a poltergeist.
Brighter still, I melt like wax and drip free, only spilling for an instant before I'm consumed by the light, dissolved, dispersed, and digested.
I feel I'm moving but I don't know it and still I'm moving but I can't know it.
I'd panic if I held any stock in permanence.
So far though?
No complaints.
Super-combusting in my own sweet time.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas

Tell me I was just imagining things.

While some rely on a relatively fixed ego construct to define themselves, setting it outside of the churning flow of reality like a foundation left outside the house or an anchor with no chain, others choose to see themselves as merely the sum total of their actions. In truth, the fallacy in either perspective is choosing to define oneself as anything more than whatever particular action one is involved in at the moment. With all one tries to hold, tries to carry, at a given moment, living as no more than a bag...




A fallacy once more, that anything could ever be no more, no less.
A bag of fallacy.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Uh-oh.
Oh boy.
Here we go with this again.



Never can tell if we're growing out of something or just growing into something else.

Love,
the dead minotaur

You know what's so great about entropy?
It's everywhere.
All around.
Stuff just entropizing.
Entropiating.
You know, like you do.



Come meet The Entropy All-Stars why don't you.
Entrophilize a little.
Not too much.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Don't know what it is chemically that keeps dragging us through here
but here we are again regardless.
All these empty houses peering through the brush, empty eyes wide, inquisitive.
All these empty houses, you'd figure people lived here once.
Figure somebody at least.
You'd figure wrong though. (don't know what it is chemically keeps)
Nobody ever comes here 'sides us and we could never live here.
Don't know what it is chemically that keeps dragging us.
Comes up from inside, radiating out and taking pieces off you with it,
broadcasting pieces of you, pollinating you.
Yes of course we've thought about going inside.
We think of everything. It's a debilitating habit.
But you've got to understand.
Not a one of these houses was built.
All these empty houses grow wild.
Regardless, chemically.
Don't know what it is that keeps dragging us through here.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas