the ninth gate

why should making something outside of ourselves justify our existence?

“i now embrace eternity, because this is far from over”

why should we be worth any more than dirt? aren’t we of dirt? gravity is real, because we can measure and predict it. the soul isn’t real, because we can’t weigh it. how is the soul different from gravity? aren’t i alive?

made in the image of our creator which makes us creators, right? which makes us the creator, right? is that not enough? why can’t we stop there? instead, i have to make ten thousand tiny oil paintings, the size of a business card. business cards. for whom?

who is the making for? besides them, i mean. of course, i mean. them. making what for what? does it even matter? is it even matter? how is that

making for whom? i might ask. it’s not for them, whoever they are. it’s not for anyone else. is masturbation? where does masturbation fall on the spectrum in relation to chocolate, or umami, or fucking, or is that redundant? making something? does the form of the offering matter? does it need to be matter? can it be an idea, an imagination? does the form of the making matter?

i only ask questions, because i have no answers. i want no answers. if you give me answers, i’ll vote against my own interests. and somebody will kill you.