Pot Helps pt. 36

Blind optimism and optimistic rhetoric interpreted as truth, as seen through the scope of one's own desired personal achievements vis-à-vis one's placement within the human 'heroism' tableaux. Intensely exacerbated by the learned concept of American individualism, all directed by fear; as if we are to believe anyone who opened their mouth ever really chose to exist on any sort of level at all.
That’s what we deal with.
And let me tell you without a single hint at cynicism: if I weren’t just a little bit a part of this or perhaps on some level intensely choosing to be, I’d have been asking myself non-stop to play more than just one game of R.Roulette up to and until I was black-bagged, toe-tagged, cast off as an angry douche bag and left to time. Look me in my eyes and tell me I’m not right.
But do I maybe get a little bit of credit?
Don’t I? I put enemies on all sides under the guise of looking for truth and I may have found it, but it was about as climactic as ripping my whole house down to prove whether or not I was right that I could find the empty space where it once was and that the empty space could not have been there when and where the house once was when it was there where I was cogitating this mess and now perhaps my thoughts are lost like the way you lose a parent and I'm maybe perhaps just a little bit up there on that cross in terms of how I have to constantly feel your pain for you.
And this is an existence. This is a combination of a million electrical signals. This is me and you and everyone else trying to pretend.
This is me in the end.