Aspire to greatness,
but not the kind they teach you about in school.
Not the kind where you can all be astronauts and presidents when you grow up
so long as you “apply yourself” (whatever that means)
and other such nonsense.
Not the kind where you get good grades
so you can get into a good university
so you can get into a good job
adding numbers to a rich man’s bank account
for the occasional pat on the back
and the right to live on the planet that you were born on
and then someday that somehow translates into you feeling okay with life
and being able to appreciate the raw beauty of leaves.

Aspire to greatness,
but not the kind they teach you about in church.
Not the kind where you get okay with being meek and submissive
and giving ten percent of your income to the preacher man
so you can be rewarded in some metaphysical way
that remains invisible to you until you die
and it’s too late to realize you wasted your life singing
about some imaginary douchebag from Nazareth.

Aspire to greatness,
but not the kind they teach you about in movies.
Not the kind where you are the main character
and the whole story is about you and your goal
which you attain by overcoming insurmountable odds
and kicking the villain into a trash compactor
and then claiming your girl or your trophy or your trophy girl.
Not the kind where everyone cheers for you
because you did the thing
and got it done in under two hours
in a way everyone finds egoically pleasing
and not too cognitively challenging.

Aspire to greatness.
The real kind.
The kind that really shows up to this weird and wild ride
and relishes every sweet sloppy ecstatic nauseating labia-stretching moment of it.
The kind that human life isn’t wasted on.
Not because it racked up a bunch of self-aggrandizing achievements and accomplishments,
but because it really showed up.
It really showed up for each precious instant,
cherished it,
worshipped it,
and let it pass by without grasping.

Aspire to greatness,
because the ice caps are melting
and the insects are dying
and the ground is paved with dead fish and birds
and the Bastards are pretty sure they can win a nuclear war if they need to.
And it would be such a tearfountain shame if this all went away
without having been truly felt,
truly experienced,
truly met,
truly loved,
in every way possible,
by everyone,
including you,
especially you.

Aspire to greatness.
The kind you’d want from an audience
if you were putting on this whole show for them
for one time
and one time only.
Greatness in your appreciation.
Greatness in your attentiveness.
Greatness in your awe.
Greatness in your reverence
at an unceasing eruption of wonderment
whose majesty no teacher, preacher or filmmaker
has ever prepared us for,
could ever prepare us for.

True greatness does not speak in the language of narrative.
It drinks wordlessly from breasts of the earth.

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New book: Notes From The Edge Of The Narrative Matrix.

The best way to get around the internet censors and make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, liking me on Facebook, following my antics on Twitter, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge.

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Aspire to greatness, but not the kind they teach you about in school. Not the kind where you can all be astronauts and presidents when you grow up so long as you “apply yourself” (whatever that means) and other such nonsense. Not the kind where
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