A Language They Don’t Speak

Sometimes this culture’s shit gets too much and I want to scream “FOR FUCKS SAKE STOP FUCKING STUFF UP BY TRYING TO NOT BREAK SHIT”, but I don’t, because to do so would create unnecessary hassle, which I honestly can’t be arsed with (so I mutter it internally until I’m with the trees and the birds and scream with them.

I’m becoming more and more like the birds who scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak, trying to warn people of the truths, speaking to people who do not speak the same language as me and the birds and the trees – to borrow from Kurt Cobain.

Wittgenstein argued that the limits of our language are the limits of our world and I’m getting pretty fucking sick of language and words written on paper, telling me what I can or can’t do, or say.

A hug is more honest communication than your words and the grammatics of your ideology, your behavioural encoding, trying to bind and bound me to the structures of your territory. A punch is also. An explosion is more honest than the words of a bureaucrat, a politician or any other priest of the Leviathan’s theocracy.

The wind, rain, flame, shaking of the earth, seas rising, tree roots breaking, beasts thrashing, birds singing, hares dancing, and other wild articulations are more beautiful still.

The pen is not mightier than the song of the jay.

Even these words fall into nothing, before the transient dance of the transient-nothingness of immediacy and phenomenological-physicality.

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