Everyone is anxious
For Chekhov’s gun is still on the wall
It has not been fired
And we are soon approaching the next act
What do they wait for?
A provocation?!
Dear college age white boy
(Not unlike myself)
Your pseudo-nihilism bores them
We all know these things are just for show
Besides we see how much of an elitist you are
And how little you understand the words you are saying
If Nietzsche’s life were recast
You’d be the man beating the Turin Horse
Why does he say such things?
Does he understand the human mind, the human condition?!
We all wait for the collapse to come
And all of its children to return home
For we are already all aliens to each other
And we know what sweet flowers can grow from ashes
If life is to be a garden
I intend to be a worm
Does he really mean that?
We can see in his eyes he is not convinced
How long have we been going in these circles?
Or is it true that I am unique in this regard alone?
Every philosopher
Every poet
Every self perpetuating artist has their bag of tricks
I have whatever I can pillage
Everything that can be said
Has already been said
He am going back into the gallery
And drawing mustaches on all the faces
And as the audience leaves
Chekhov’s gun remains untouched, suspended by a thread
And this time only
There are no deeper meanings
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Everyone is anxious
For Chekhov’s gun is still on the wall
It has not been fired
And we are soon approaching the next act
What do they wait for?
A provocation?!
Dear college age white boy
(Not unlike myself)
Your pseudo-nihilism bores them
We all know these things are just for show
Besides we see how much of an elitist you are
And how little you understand the words you are saying
If Nietzsche’s life were recast
You’d be the man beating the Turin Horse
Why does he say such things?
Does he understand the human mind, the human condition?!
We all wait for the collapse to come
And all of its children to return home
For we are already all aliens to each other
And we know what sweet flowers can grow from ashes
If life is to be a garden
I intend to be a worm
Does he really mean that?
We can see in his eyes he is not convinced
How long have we been going in these circles?
Or is it true that I am unique in this regard alone?
Every philosopher
Every poet
Every self perpetuating artist has their bag of tricks
I have whatever I can pillage
Everything that can be said
Has already been said
He am going back into the gallery
And drawing mustaches on all the faces
And as the audience leaves
Chekhov’s gun remains untouched, suspended by a thread
And this time only
There are no deeper meanings
