Theory tires me. The more I delve into concepts and abstracts, the more I want for facts, practical execution, and results. Rather than always think about things, I want to realize them. I will never be the philosopher or the academic. That is quite alright. The old lesson I have discovered is not to focus on what I am not, but who I am. I began the search a while ago and I suspect something like this never dies once it is embarked upon and pursued.
The part of me that does venture off into unknown territory is limited to bursts of thought that seem to rise up of their own accord and rack my mind into scenarios that I ultimately write on paper as if written by an unseen man whose wild eyes see things I will forget about, just like this. The frogs in your eyes are hopping into me, hopping into me. My eyes see them hopping closer, raging red, South American babies torn apart and sold for meat to us the fat men. They are mixed with wood pulp from their forest homesteads and ground into fine vittles. We walk one foot apart toward the pet shop and pick out the nicest this and that, forgetting about the gangly ones and ugly ones who are just as pretty green. Their fur is golden fleece and ours is dumped in the toilet. Curly curls. Bye, babies. We are allowed to cry now, you may weep and I may sigh. They will find no pleasure in heaven but perhaps the lack of surprises will keep them sustained.
I continue to imagine everything I own sold, shipped, and flung off into the trash. A far drive follows and before I reach the woods I find a prostitute to carelessly fuck. When the disgust of the detached act reaches my nostrils I leave the jeep behind and walk further and further into these nameless woods. I never return.
And now there is no theory. It is all executed. Flush.