Here there is a place where nobody thinks, where stories are written when nobody has anything to say. Here is a place where the sick go to get healed, and the well try to get sick again so that they can see. Sometimes you have to ask for an ailment or a thorn and the worst times are when all you feel is its absence, invoking inside you some hidden frustration at your own stupid happiness, some desire to see more.
What happens when the world stops thinking? Maybe I've run out of things to say. I have this theory that the best stories are the simple ones, the ones you perpetually tell yourself are far too simple to breed any merit, but I suppose I just don't quite know how to write a simple story anymore. The beast still rages, reminding me of the supposed complexity of human emotion, but I don't know if I believe it. I still prefer to read about simple things, like what you did today. I just can't bring myself to write about it.
What happens when the world stops thinking? The ebb and flow of artistic expression eases, to my bitter discontent, leaving in its wake the need to fashion a more holistic evaluation of self-worth. Yet wait a little, because in a while you will return to the place where you came from. Looking back, a pillar of salt, and your punishment is to forever ponder foreverness.
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