Follow the White Rabbit

Stalks of light grow from the ground
When I cry there isn't a sound
All my feelings cannot be held
I'm happy in my new strange world.

-Steve Harris, Strange World, 1979.


Life has very little utility. There is no purpose served by it. And I
wonder what moron ever came up with the idea that it should have a
purpose. Why the f**k does life have to have a purpose. Let it be. Let
me drive into a pole as my heart pounds in my temples, my vision blurs
to a wonderful light, and the rush of pure madness makes me
scream. Let me be blissful. There has to be no purpose. It is all
bull. All the purposes are damage control exercises. Life itself is an
accident of birth. We live because we were involved in the
accident. And then there is the other Phlogiston theory about the
pursuit of happiness. That one takes the cake. The pursuit of
happiness.

The acceptance of madness is what we desire, what we crave, what we
lust for. A sense lost by most as easily as they accept that the
useless details are really what happiness is all about. Good food,
good scotch, the love of the love of your life, divine, sweaty sex, a
brisk walk on a glorious day, a mountain road violated by a 1999 M
coupe shifting up from second, a fine leather belt, the lovely smell
of which still reminds you of the stupid beast that was skinned so
your pants can stay on. Try madness. You'll never look back. There
will be no need to. There will be no hunger, no thirst, no fatigue,
and no need for the belt.

Its easy to embrace madness. Even though we keep it locked and abused
most of our lives, even though we have scant respect for its
capabilities to transport us to the eternal, it will still embrace
us. If we only let it. It takes little time to realize that
happiness is not something you have to pursue. Happiness does not
exist. Only the value of time. Happiness is an excuse for time wasted
on impotent ventures. I spent 6 f**king precious years of my sad
little insignificant life on this, so it must make me happy, even if
it leaves a quart of warm, fragrant dung on my face. Happiness is
ascribed to everything that took time and effort. Well, you know
what?? It doesn't fucking make a difference. Time has no value when
you open the doors of madness. There is no time. Now is
forever. Unchanging, limitless. There is no time wasted. There is no
looking back. Because there is no past. All is now. And now is
forever.

I want to let the madness soak into my brain. Every single neuron
firing itself to glory, sparks leaping to eternity. I want a higher
level of happiness. This stupid, insipid wine-women-and wealth
bullshit just doesn't cut it. Not for me it doesn't. I want to feel
everything, and nothing at all. I want pain, and I want delirium. Lift
me till I am one with the darkness. Show me something worth
something. Don't give me this pursuit-of-fucking-happiness bullcrap.