there is such a margin of error when it comes to words.

it’s a fiction, so it can be twisted around to the speaker’s will and worldview (and a worldview is just a one big fiction).

we speak to each other and every word passes through a filter that transforms what is said into something that fits the fiction.

i‘m not exempt from this; as a matter of fact, i’m realizing this from my own experience and am calling myself out for it.

words are all made up and their meanings are so loose (the use of literally is a perfect example).

im learning that shutting the fuck up might be the best thing to do if i want some peace in my life… not forever, just currently.

actions have less chance for misinterpretation although we still do our best to make a fiction out of those too.

but if you come across a mountain lion, you can’t talk it out of eating you up; you gotta intimidate it, not trigger it, outrun it, or accept death.

nature’s language is its actions.

nature doesn’t speak, it does.

nothing better than the hard launch, just do the thing; you sit here talking or thinking about it, but that’s all fucking fiction.

everything we sit and think or talk about, fiction; doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it, it’s just useful to remember.

after a while we just smother ourselves in this delusional fictional bubble, out of touch with anything real, deep-down aware it’s just a bubble, but so attached to the comfort it brings that we prefer to stay there, anxiously hoping reality doesn’t pull up and pop.

fuck allat.

i know its real if i can see it, hear it, touch it, smell it, taste it; the rest is speculation.

the labels can’t become realer than what they’re labelling, that’s madness.

words are a tool, a part of reality, not all of reality.

this is self-criticism.