You seek the places that ache, you want to find the spots when you put your thumb there it runs like voltage from skull to toes. You want to feel the pain so you can feel something, so you can know you’re real. I hurt therefore I am.
The only other connections real enough or close enough or telepathic enough are those made one dimensional connected with wires and electricity, some other soul you don’t know who can say his pain and you feel it too. This is more real than reality because reality consists of alienation of industrialization, souls partitioned, sectioned into boxes, caught inside paper cages. Eat sleep work shit and divorce the soul and heart and mind, you don’t need those anyway. Except that those are the parts that hurt.
You try to find it in a glowing blue box filled with nonsense, and the only way to find it here is if it’s elsewhere, too, a growing concern, an accumulating proof of disassociation. Grant us all some discord and dissent, unbeautiful, angular like a broken fence.
You seek the tender sore spots like you get using muscles you haven’t used all winter, aches like the day after you spent five sunny hours battling thornbushes and wormwood and dandelions with roots that go to the earth’s core and raking up all the dead grass from last year.
Old notions get torn from the soil and displayed in dusty shallow shadow boxes, pressed flowers faded to grey, and hope gets kindled but it never makes more than a few flint on stone sparks. You’re too busy looking at the symptoms to explain the cause of your pain. You seek the sore spots and the pain of others to validate your own, as the only way to know you’ve really created something.
New notions get torn from the soil and are left to rot, compost, you see it and smell it and maybe turn it as a neighborly favor, and maybe take some of the black rich soil beneath the rotting weeds for your own new ideas which will soon be torn out and left to rot. Your preoccupation with finding validation of your loneliness grants you no harvest.
Exit the cave.