(Look at me, terribly inactive! Life is busy, but I’ve been writing. Like this tiny thing! Hopefully I can get back into a consistent posting of my work. Nevertheless, enjoy!)

People think my life doesn’t make sense.
I disagree.
I think my life makes perfect sense.
If you don’t think too hard about it.
Well, thinking is for things that want to fit in our heads. That want to make sense.
I think it’s rude to assume that all things desperately want to show us their meaning. A little narcissistic even.
I guess that would mean that, in fact everything makes sense, and nothing doesn’t make sense.

The more I say the word, it feels like it looses its meaning. Melts with its heat and turns into mush. Y’know.
Sense. It doesn’t sound like a gift from the heavens. Sounds man made. Social construct. Synonyms.
It is called making sense. Meaning it wasn’t there before. You have to create the box of sense for the thing to fit in so neatly. And then
It finally makes sense.
Though really it didn’t create its own sense. We did. We made sense of it.
And since sense sends no scent or sound or sight, we cannot desern the box it’s sorted in.
And nonsense is no sense. A lack of sense. But because if nothing makes no sense it means that nonsense is when you are in a situation where you simply cannot create the box for it to sit in.
Because it doesn’t want to.
And I believe we should start to respect and support their wishes to not fit in our supposed sacred boxes that we have named Sense.
And since I have slightly strayed from the subject, which I am very sorry for, I would like to repeat that my life makes perfect sense.
The perfect amount of sense that it wants to have.
Which is none at all.

(The fact that I wrote this during dishes-)


The amazing owner of WRandR!

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