Reality is a harsh mistress, so let's commit adultery (again).

something similar to david foster wallace, which i've promised myself to write but never had the motivation to.

The egoist has done it before, and seen it all before. or rather, them. in their naked, all-revealing splendour. Somehow their genuine honesty appealed, seduced, and brought him to bed them (and with them). But then the egoist grew tired, as all children will with their newfound toys. he outgrew that anal phase, the times when the egoist used to play the anti-hero just for a romantic, pseudo-masochistic fun (and still does, somewhat, because it's no fun being non self-centered), with all of these Greco-Roman muses surrounding him, on his frescos, on the buttresses, chiding, busying themselves about the egoist, changing his soiled nappies, and molly-coodling the frequent cries for attention. The egoist doesn't need parents as much as he desires the centering of all sounds equal upon him - as if the inertia of the whole world resided, not outside of him, nor independent of him. He felt, in a sense, like meta-inertia itself, defining the laws of motion, of speak and thought, so much that he felt a very delightful sense of weightlessness whenever coos and 'chiaks' punctuated his constant need for adoration - he felt like giving birth to small samples of himself, and very often it was so.

Then the egoist couldn't take the centering of undivided attention around him anymore. Because no matter how he was placed upon the pedestal, elavated to pseudo-climatic heights, showered with pomp, flair, and confetti, he couldn't stop feeling that the entire act was one of pseudo-irony (the irony being that he, the egoist, manufactured the entire stage upon which he carefully manipulated others to parade him on - it was a glaring hole in his heart that ate away at him unconsciously - he never realised the absurdity of the situation, otherwise he would perhaps have delighted himself, for a full month, wallowing in that half-conundrum-half-nectar of pseudo meta-thought. That (by that meaning, that general feeling of satirised showmanship) was only found out on hindsight, and even then, long into his second marriage) where he was the sole true actor, director, and stage-hand who carefully preened himself before indulging in majestic hand-waving upon his ivory tower, between occasions of royal appearances. Being the hypocritically egoist that he is, nothing defined him so much as the courtly scenes, but he craved an understanding of self and purpose that he felt could make him even more outstanding that he already is. It was self-actualisation, nor self-endorsement, that he would later come to understand in the last few years of his life, that defined his tumultuous periods while ding-donging between the blatant acting-acting, and acting phrase.

The egoist first met Reality during a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous (which he, in the tumultuous and trying periods of his self-centered, grand life, was forcing himself to eat some humble pie in the form of a condescending period of woe-is-me-battling alcohol addiction, which he mostly staged by play-pretend, which at that turning point in life where he had already impressively impersonated so many diverse personae that acting out such a 'weak' character, was, in his own way, eating humble pie. Except with one hand tied behind his back. This was to characterise his own 'blue' period that was similar to Picasso (so he would have thought, if he had familiarised himself with Art earlier), where he battled numerous depressions and addictions in an admirable way to once again centre numerous forces upon inertia (i.e, himself)). At first, the egoist thought nothing about Reality as she seemed so much like the harem before (which he now had nothing to show for but growing disdain, day by day, like the alcoholic poison that was secreting into his veins), right down to the coos and sighs, almost like the gentle rhythm of the arm-cradle they always put him on when he was young. Reality took turns listening to each attention-seeking scoundrel without fault, nodding and encouraging at every turn, giving the compulsory Group Therapy 101's constant eye-contact (with nary a judgement - she was consciously forcing herself to, or so he thought she thought. The intrigue was haunting.). Later, he was to realise that she had nothing but the utmost contempt for the bunch of intoxicated lost souls that literally fell over their own logic and reasoning feet trying to explain their cesspool of misery. To her, it was just a day-job of constant prodding of cattle into emptying their foul bowels, nodding repeatedly so much she could almost fall asleep at their mantra chants with the usual mix of depression, regret, humiliation, and the like. A toxic cesspool of nothing else that even the egoist doesn't dare to tread, knowing that a single misstep would swallow him up like quicksand and leave him flailing and indulging in the everyday delight of woe-is-me-misery (which in this sense would not fulfil him his meta-desire for attention seeing that he only succeeds when he consciously knows that he gets it, not when he doesn't).

The egoist did not recall the first meeting when Truth stripped bare and stood in her naked splendour in front of him. He had an impression that a cunning snake had just shed its ridiculously camouflaged skin (which he felt, much like his, was the product of society being unable to see past mere façades, its impotency at handling below-surface, unconscious and yet all-too-evident inconvenient Truths, which excited him further) ready to wrap itself around its prey (ie. him) and swallow it hole ((since he desires an acknowledgement of his own existence, and a partner well-versed at façade-deconstruction, (ie, who takes no shit from him) who reveals his most inner core emotions that is unbeknownst even to himself, which he knows really that would perhaps destroy him utterly and render him a stark raving fool)).

For five long years the egoist carried on his sordid affair with Reality, eager to discover his true purpose and character from his self-appointed prophet. Her initial words sprouted like pearls of wisdom which he eagerly lapped up (which in retrospect, was akin to horoscoping or interactive personality tests, much to his disgust). Her economy with words left him starved for more as he felt it explained the very depths of his soul. Catharsis on a cigar pipe. Sometimes the situation called for a waterweed one with numerous fruity flavours that bubbled constantly, just like his certain insecurities, which were tremendously breaking the surface, breaking waves, before dissonating down to calm waves again. He quickly adapted the part of the armchair patient, couched into a foetal position (which she explained as a natural reflex from having too little love too late), while Reality adopted the cross-legged, Freudian approach, listening for long stretches before telling him 'how I feel' which for short, she knew he knew, and he knew she knew, stood for what-utter-rubbish-nonsensical-hyperbole-ridiculously-overblown-self-concocted-misery-this-is-others-have-much-more-to-worry-about-like-the-famines-in-Africa. Yet while he secretly hid that innate desire and defense reflex to belt around her oft-nodding posture and tug tightly around her slender, slim neck, the non-judgement of the woman left him reeling, much in a sadomasochist fashion (if experts in that area were to agree, but they tend to live awfully short lives). The pain let him grow and question his true meaning in life. He could no longer deceive nor could he stand to. Rather, his characteristic evolution in mindset led to an eventual understanding that he could do no harm both to himself and Reality.

Yet, in the later years of the affair, the egoist found his interest waning. No longer did he view her as the all encompassing truth, but rather just a second-level discourse masquerading, as a natural law. (As an empiricist, or rather, as pressured to feel and talk and think like an empiricist, because he couldn't take the humiliating stand as a relativist, seeing how that would demand stating that he was, at best, as right as everyone, which certainly to his all-powerful-righteous-let's-take-the-opposite-path, not-because-I'm-right, but-because-I-can perspective, would obliterate his tightly-held belief.

Ok, shit, so you can't write anymore. Because you know that it's been going downward really quickly in the grand trajectory of all things good. It's like the rollercoaster going off its rails, which to everyone but the passenger is great stuff, really, but not to you. You wonder how you can continue calling the bluff, like adding more chips to the table and maintaining that scornful, scoundrel smile, like you've cheated the entire world, including your mom and the poor abandoned puppy dog to be here, piling chips, looking suave. When in fact you have. Because you've lead your readers into such a quagmire of anti-climax. Like the imp-things that lead the adventurous into the oasis only to lure them into quicksand and grin while they drown in the language of make-believe that you know they know it's make-believe but hey it's OK, since everyone does that to make themselves look smart anyway and everyone wants to pretend to know how to read some smart-ass' book on the public transport and say hey that's the way I see it and thus look smart by association and then you can stand up on your podium and sign books and just point to any prominent smart-ass' book review and say that's how you meant it all along when in fact it's just smart-ass analysing that counts for nothing and you just wrote something to bring in the dough and look intelligent doing it.

So how are you going to solve it? And worse yet, how are you going to stop the smart-asses from telling faithful smart-ass readers that the egoist draws parallel with your own life? Because you aren't sure at all are you. Like looking down a mirror, or the oily patch of water after rain, that it's not yourself. That you just write 'on the spur of the moment' since spontaneous talent, obviously, is the desired intellectual high snuff, as unexplainable as spontaneous combustion, except with more longevity. So how do you convince them that it's not you, or maybe, not only you, that it's something everybody can relate to (since that sells copies like none other), that their favourite author has not jumped the shark and sold out and sold his naked baring soul for a princely sum of twenty-one dollars and sixty-nine cents inclusive of GST at all major bookstores just for your adoring fans' pleasure?

You can, maybe, include that above. By looking at it as a meta-meta-fiction, it seems as if it's deliberately saying something about nothing, putting a higher level upon the pyramid. You know how nothing appears. It's the idea of nothing that seems like something that everyone just so crazily loves to bits. Like how everyone wants to see the wonders of the world, and the word meta sounds so damned high-concept by default when in fact it's just a Ponzi scheme except that you market intangible incomprehensible pseudo-ideas that really, when boiled down to its core, makes no sense at all. Especially when everyone has their own takeaways since they'll link it to some traumatic parts of their lives and comprehend it as if it's that that, and they'll argue over book clubs over how their take is the best and finally, because they really can't leave the book club where they stake their entire social intellectual lives upon, agree to disagree on the finer points and instead conclude on how talented and feted this work of the century truly should be.

So Reality, is, what it is. Is that cryptic enough yet? Maybe you should sleep awhile and wake up with a new muse instead. And the egoist? Damn the egoist.