I bite my lip at the thought of witnessing another go through it.
Them seeing what it is I see.
An itch which cannot be scratched.
The ache, lustful with ideas.
Entertained by perpetual “What iffing.”
Once the curtain lifts the show never ends.
It’s who they are forever.
But there is no way to teach this.
There’s no way to explain it.
It has to be witnessed to be understood.
To be experienced.
You had to be there.
The best that can be done is to live what’s been earned.
One day, at least one will want what’s been learned.
When they see what’s brought to the table.
Only then will they follow.
They’ll imitate and in doing so they’ll learn, understand and realize it’s all hallow.
And it’ll turn me on.
Make these ideas more effable for the experiencee.
Make the experiencee more F-able to me.
Orgasmic in nature.
Being present during the realization period of an individual is better than sex.
To watch profound ignorance be lifted.
Exchanged for clarity and awareness.
It’s hard to explain.
Makes me hard when explained.
The mind is my lover.
My skin crawls with excitement.
This… Information, it begins to grow increasingly complex as the basics are mastered.
Ego is abandoned.
Pride is lost.
A different pride is regained, humble, loving.
A pride of informational oneness with all things.
Realize there’s no one.
Realize there’s nothing.
And I want to fuck more.
I want to swallow alive whoever understands.
Every fiber of awareness.
Drive my veins into a rainbow splash of paint colored glass blood particles.
Tight hands wrapped around my neck.
I cum purple.
Because they know of the higher self.
Because they bite my lips and understand force.
They ride my dick, fully aware that gravity brings them right back down, harder and faster.
When nails dig deep under skin and draw blood,
In the middle of a moan,
And they’re thinking,
This is an illusion created by “perception”.
Death is impossible.
There’s no such thing as objectivity.
Infinity means all things must both occur and not, and all things are true and false.
All things both exist and don’t!
Fuck my brain.
Jeez! I’ll cum all over the place at this pace.
Fuck all parts of my brain, PLEASE.
Calculus bed sheets and all.
I’m asked “Is there such thing as identity?”
It’s like having a tongue slide from my neck to my chest down to my hips before it gets lost in the stream of a v-line.
There’s something about thought I really want to fuck.