while disregarding the things I really need to be doing (like this Psychology homework) and telling myself that any time I spend writing the ideas out of me is time well spent. Time not wasted. Time toward thinking instead of going through motions.

We were talking about moral dilemmas in my philosophy class today. Would this be a case of it? Is cognitive energy toward ideas bigger than myself more productive in the grand scheme of breaking out of this machine we all dive into to look for the fulfillment we’re promised at the end of the machine’s digestive process?

Or is it about defeating the machine from the inside? Not letting it digest you

but making it regurgitate you the other direction because you refuse to agree with taking the tract that everyone succumbs to because it’s the one the machine wants you to take. It’ll spit you out and you’ll be covered in its stomach acid

but it’ll burn in the good way, like you’re on fire with everything you’ve brought back with you. Everything that it didn’t want you to make it out with. Its acid wanted to break down every idea you had the curiosity to propose and every dream you had the sense of humor to follow, but instead it seeped in and distorted them

but they look kind of cool distorted and semi broken down.

because the parts that were burned away by the bile have craters of emptyish space, but the kind of empty space you can fill in with new ideas if you don’t mourn what was disillusioned away from you. And some parts will be blended into others in a way you never would have thought of had you not entered the belly of the beast.

it’s like you were stretched and scrunched and folded over and under and around and tie-dyed into an explosion of conscious proportions and the contents of your soul tipped into the nebula that is your consciousness and it spun it around and around until it spun off and crashed into your glass case of emotions so that your emotions had no other place to reside but your mental state, causing some of your marbles to go missing

and those marbles are rolling around, mixing all the colors and leaving streaks everywhere so that your mind is all over the place and your hands are all over the page

covered in paint

blood under your fingernails

ink in your veins.

Is the moral dilemma that I’ve entered the machine that promises me happiness and dreams come true in exchange for getting so lost in the machine that I let it pull me through its stomach and out of its butt, instead of swimming against the stream and being spit out into the world on fire with the stomach bile of inspiration that I didn’t let the disillusionment of digestion take away from me?

I feel like I could just sit here and write forever. But what will that accomplish aside from writing about the same things over and over again? My world will shrink around me and I’ll wither up and dry on the plate of stale opportunity.

The only way is through the mouth of the machine. As long as I make sure that’s the only way out.

The only way to beat it is from the inside.

I better get going on this Psychology homework.