'art without bad habits'

art without bad habits. a changed william s. burroughs. a reconciling hunter s. thompson. a wish. the shitty writings of schalk ruan swartz. a lie. for a lifetime of solving everything which i’ve done wrong and as much more as possible. giving. everything that i subconsciously absorbed throughout my entire life must in some form have been twisted going into my brain. i awoke one day to everything of myself being false. and it wasn’t just that i got it wrong, it was how much i got it wrong with. what is real? what was true? has anything survived which i had right in the first place from which i can rebuild. i believed illusions, trapped myself in over analysis of assumed facts brought on by surges of excitement which i seemingly always interpreted wrong. 

completely misleading i would get enthusiastic beyond calming down over a new secret discovered, which eventually turned out to be false. i breathe air and survive on the oxygen in it. the sky is still blue. the sun still rises east. but as for my mind, nothing is the same anymore. i’m still, considering everything, alright and safe. which i always felt i would be in life. safe at least. this still means something of importance to me. a severe failure before one succeeds should feel like an anticipation of being alright in the long run and greater scheme of things. of course this potential anticipation of the future would have been half blindly seen and completely without interpretation through my entire youth and life up to now. if sin could be over now, it feels good to have it so.