The fiction of this insipid existence

I asked myself what I desire: everything. I asked myself what I want, the question echoed through the bleak tunnels of my mind for hours, days on end, never finding home in its hollow chambers. I sat in my window late again in the night. It seems to me that is the only time man can see truth, in the day when all things are lit up, burnt blindingly in our eyes we forget who we are and become what we subsume, consume unending. I’ve seen it too many times people barely even existing shining in the night, vaining next to the countless objects of the day. People whose beings are exhausted in their activities, nothing more than bright nothingness, unimportance. For what is true needs no light to shine, for only in the absence of the great big bright does the real shine with feeling, enough for anyone to notice. They simply are, what is around them, then go to sleep. Avoiding being, being in the true sense, eluding them.

I light the next cigarette and let the outside rot. Burn another piece of my soul but keep the ashes. And that is how I know if it was true, for that which leaves none, those parts of you that don’t hurt do so solely because they never were there.

As if the city were catching aflame in a single moment, pours down the rain of the forest. And without notice or guarantee as is with all matters of the heart I felt, it wants me to consume me, and I want it to do so. Without much thought, it, as all the genuine shall be, called me to my grave. I want it to consume me, yet it calls me all the same, for deep is the forest it came from, and dark are its lakes, deeper than any eye.

Who dies in the end I care not, sooner or later all die off. And so, I live for this only and follow it’s calling. Not much clothing, freezing cold, a condition of life. As if in a single thirty second moment, Dark clouds approach with astonishing speed, as if emerging from nothingness and block the sky, bringing rain with them. I had gotten up by this point and were taking down my sweater. Approaching my door with avid speed. And fell on my body, mind, and soul oppressive rain, that I barely could breathe trying to repress the vivid smile trying to force itself on my face. I lay down, in midst of the whirlwind like, ever flowing grass, the pure neural thrill of it breaks my mind. As I burst out in laughter, I feel I am lost. Floating on a dream beyond the real, the rain cooling my body causing my heart to heat and bloom like a flower on the brink of drying out, needing a sip of water only for it to burst forth with vigor. My mind like a desert before the destined rain, hollow and dry, ready to bring its many fruits into experience. In a single everlasting moment, like nature in a thousand years inhabiting, growing over the ruins of a dead civilization, a gathering storm ready to burst over the cosmos of my reality, finally breaking through my skull painting all of being in the colours of madness. My head at its epicentre, my head, flowing reality, from my insides to the world, the world to my insides perhaps or from inside to the insides?

I cough, it almost seems funny. Me, an insignificant detail of this infinitude of experience, reminded of its own mortality. Drowning in a sea of colours, coughing as a mortal still. My laughter breaks free again, but this sudden and pety self realization makes me see. I am laughing at myself, my expression shifting into a frown. Yet the laugh won’t stop, increasing painfully and with it the facts of my condition flood my mind. Uncontrollable laughter over my own powerlessness, against my very own vastness. The frown turning gradually into sorrow over the fact of the matter. A cry of laughter no bounds or borders in the realm of feeling, an amalgamation of the real as one. Without illusions laughing at illusions the border of my line of sight, my very means of recognising illusions, revealed as nothing more than the illusory itself. The rain on the inside, falling on the outside, inverted the moment it leaves me. The wind of the outside, met with a tornado inside, that I feel not its destruction but ravel in my own, it only caressing me like the soft breeze of the approaching clouds on a humid summer day. A cry imprisoned by laughter, at the self at the real, the world so ridiculously mouldable, its borders two dimensional, pitifully trying to separate a three dimensional object from itself. He cried not for a decade, this is the closest he has come, where he can let loose the weight of experience in a laughter, yet what he can do not comes forth now. The miserable reality of his sufferings incapable of manifesting in any other form his mind shouting at the top of its lungs, let tears flow, let worlds blow, let me live, let me out. Pain and real, laughter and cry, all the same for him one of many he feels for them too for their deluded minds can live not a real life, illusions of a world encircled by a womb separating them from a world of unknown, from a world of their insides. Ultimately separating them from their very selves. The illusions en masse encircle the masses as the womb does to them in their pathetic mythology of wich they are ignorant. My words few but vivid, my expression cold yet trembling, my voice shaken speaks of true, I cry in bed yet drown the world in clouds ever gathering yet never raining. Drunk on pain, it won't rain, no more masks, for I'm alone, who speaks then asks a silent voice. To destroy a verse, no more poems, I break lines, no more lives. I live once, no time for phrasing or lines let it all blur into a single verse of madness colours and sound unending, space and time, what a fakery, the proud egoism of expression ignorant of its horrors that are as it is, just an infinitude of meaningless expression.

The world flows still yet it seems, I do not flow along anymore. Now in my complete nakedness I feel alone as never before. Calmly, in profound distress, I feel nothing yet still too much. The rain pours still, yet again, and again I am nowhere to be found. What mockery, what cruelty, what a life and world, what a curse. Each drop of rain a life of pain, each blow of wind the death of a world in me. Over and over again, how many more may come, how many more than this came before I remember not anymore. And finally, once, I died too many times to care about living anymore. Every day and night, somewhere, a soul is stretched a bit too far, that it will never be the same again. In the twisted orders of the real the last illusion people hang on, that for which they construct all of their lies. To belong still in the world, the world of people that is. To belong brings the illusion into which most sit back comfortably into, that is, that if they can present themselves to the outside, to society than they can lay back. And not look inwards, and the nothingness they are, and the nothingness others are. That they are nowhere to be found even inside of themselves. Monsters with one too many faces. On the shores of being a human, no more ships arrive, no more ports to these parts function. Only a radical inside force of rebellion, trough feeling with all of ones being, can break trough the prison walls from time to time. Yet more frequently than not all is simply lost. The dialogue of the world takes over the symbolic once so proudly bathing in the bath of blood, that is the real, pulled at once towards some illusion by a great force of gravity. Society is in the end a repression. Repression is each and every one of its building blocks. To be a deviant is the only true way of life, yet even that seems impossible today. The oppressive force is inside us, built into our very beings, an alien parasite spreading like wildfire, what it takes over becomes alien to us. We become alien to ourselves.

In me no force was left. I lay with a blank expression back down again. Where did all this me go, where am I now? In the coldness of my body, in the barrenness of my soul, I sense not a glimmer of life, my heart beating on, so, so far away from me. The feeling of it distant and disturbing, I almost wish to rip it out, the feeling of disgust over possessing something so horrifyingly impure, the feeling of it beating like repetitive whiplashes on my insides. Leave me be, I ordered, spare me this existence I prayed.

But over the horizon, the setting sun shines its rays over a mountainside, in a final disillusionment these shining rays, it seems only inspired a sort of dread reminding me of long-lost times, people I once were, all of my selves that I feel disturbed and sickened by. Of the time of my current predicament, I am reminded and with annoyance I look towards the houses in disgust. I around myself and feel again nothing but the same. Disenchantment of the highest degree, I go back to my room. Like a robot, a system of function I get up in my window and light a cigarette. So that I do something that preoccupies my hands. So that I can think, so that I can assess the damages, the wounds. Hands shaking as if they were afraid of me, refusing my control. I cannot bear to look around myself, for each and every centimeter of reality I see I feel I must be dying, my eyes closed listening to my heartbeat. The tribal drum, a barbaristic ritual of blood, disgusted to be alive. Again, the hole in me, not my heart but my soul stands as empty as ever. As it always has, and now its edges seem so soft and gentle, and its shape is revealed again in even more detail. As a hole of nothingness, the illusion is what you build around it. In a spiral of self referenciality, a process of repetition, the mimicry of it’s shape a trap you lay for yourself. I can scream and shout, yet the real evades, always, I can only try to evoke it for myself in thought for naught. To try to evoke a shrieking void in oneself, a never ceasing rumblings of a mad god. Beyond the image lies its cause, behind the cause there is nothing, nothing to speak about. Never to be uttered about, for it is that which evades, always, language. My hands out of control, I remember what is happening, still unable to stop it. Not that I would do it if I could. Tired and cold I finish my cigarette and lay down in a bed, full of nothing.

From me to the world, from fiction to fiction, author to fiction, fiction to author. The world tears and turns on.

Did I truly just wake up, or am I yet dreaming? I sit up in bed, and look around, the old curtains fall around and contour the dim light, escaping trough the filter the grey clouds amass on the sky. In the grey colour of the canvas all things seem to possess a certain aura of life. Dancing around them is a certain calmness in distress. I long for nothing and now the world appears so peaceful. The leaves swim ever so gently in the breeze of the phenomenal. Their core a pain so sharp it can only be felt softly, opening up to the light flow of time. The morning is accompanied by a slow shower of rain, not falling from angry clouds simply falling trough the soft blanket of the sky imposing not overwhelming emotions but overwhelming sensitivity to the small and sacred afflictions of the senses. The calm and silent melancholy radiating, slow, flowing rain curtain, enshrouding myself, softly carrying my mind to the shrouded archipelagos of experience where the smallest moment of being is a journey of Orpheus. Once it is perhaps impossible not to look back but, while this fleeting feeling is still here, I can be, together with the pain of the world, and live it with itself so, so sadly, yet ever so beautifully.

Everything, and me shivering along each other in blessed peace of mind. And yet again, finally My chest surges and shivers with an unusual beyond experience, truly beyond the line, when beauty and pain converge in an extasy of suffering, as a sponge, my soul soaked up all that around me, gathered and finally flooded me with it, barely able to breathe, my whole being, a pressure in my chest and throat, a force emanating from the epicentre of the invasion of my senses. Flexing every inch of my musculature in my torso, radiating its effect to the rest of my body. I choose to rather collapse safely and half falling, get on the ground, everything is so disturbingly bright, all of a sudden, the sun glazes too hot, the lamps invade my vision, I cannot bare to look I close my eyes, images flashing before me. Of the forest, from the darkness of its lakes in which I now flow in, the forest seems darker, imbued with chaos and the deep colours of the crystal-clear lake, now seem, as a distant land of happenings which could not disturb the peace of the lakes, distant incomprehensible ramblings. The peace of a storm ready to fulfil its fate and rain away into nothingness. Release me from this prison of emotions, walls and emotions, why, why, why. Life appears as an invasive force of torturous intentions, I am, but my very own prisoner. An unwilling audience of prisoners, that is humankind, slaves of their impulses, yet even more so of their thoughts. Why so torturous, why so visceral, why the need to show that it goes deeper? Why are you, world so keen to punish, so keen to gut and burn each and every piece of hope in the heart of man, leave him to feel only pain if he even tries to live outside its control. Life reappears as torturer, and as you yourself, with you also being your prisoner. Life itself fundamentally behind every day life’s illusions always beats away continually on itself, you yourself. The prison of being infests you with an insect, I mean instinct pardon me. It is a cruel one because it simply says: I do not want to die, such a cruel force is nature that it would imprint this torturing command into a being so prone to suffering like into everything else without concern. You are destined to suffer but not to endure it, but until it breaks you, destroys every last piece of ash remaining of your heart and soul after its done with you. Only something as insipid and brazenly stupid as life could never dare to create such pitiful creature as man and the rest of being. All of life’s force and goal converges in the painful repetition of itself trough consumption of itself in a hideous spectacle of senseless cruelty. Man himself is one of the cruellest creatures ever to walk this planet, perhaps because instinct does not let man die without becoming a monster. It keeps you around, borders your limits, pretends to leave only to return suffering ten times stronger a bit later. To take you deeper than ever before, it makes you more resistant only to throw something heavier at you. Pain never ceases to encircle all of phenomena, rather wherever phenomena rises, suffering entails as the conductor of the cruel symphony of nature. Where life arises, suffering is there to be its conductor, as the truth of life. All that lives is prey to someone or something, so that one can live, another must become prey, all those who live, live on top of a mountains of bones, that lived suffered and died in the sacred order of life never questioning its intentions, never questioning a force sentencing itself to die over and over again, and to suffer ass well, and suffer long too.

I must be, alive to suffer so much, right? I live, right? At least like this I am more alive than all the others right? As artist, as sufferer, confronting this much of me only makes sense for the cynical pleasure of turning it into art, right? I need at least the pleasure of this to keep me alive. And I turn furiously towards my desk. I find myself staring at a peculiar drawing, and the ceiling sometimes, I did not want to interrupt so I waited to see what happens, after a few repetitions of switching between the picture and the ceiling, a thought embraces all into a singular form of abstraction, I lie back into my bed, my mind restlessly rambling while I try to sleep, about myself my depths, a topology of a most horrifying creature, to myself.

Trembling in a rush of cold, I think, Jesus himself was willing to die so easily because he knew, it is a sin to be alive, the true message of his death is that even the morally perfect, whose only guide is compassion, be yet deserving of death, death as the highest philosophical wisdom. Or the death of Socrates. Still as it were the strange willingness to die, is the lesson, perhaps even if he never admitted it, Socrates may have known one thing after all. Futility and pain, that life is corrupt to its core, that life itself is evil. Hence their willingness to die was informed by their knowledge of futility historical perspective, in the endless bloodshed of history, they refused to conform, and in protest refused to survive.

The will to life, appears at last, as a curse of the first order. And its abundance creates only more suffering. Life in time, a cyclical replay of the same patterns. Burning fields under the sun, are turning right beneath us, propelling its rotation, an endless cycle of hellish nightmare, truly its shadow haunts all of earth, littered with corpses of the past.

Why is it that when one has to theorize on what hell is like, one finds endless possibilities, and the most creative methods of torture. Yet when asked about heaven, answers are short tautologies. Is this truly not a strange phenomena? Life is so full of suffering that for the peculiarities of hell we can imagine easily a great many possibilities, yet a place where we are peaceful and happy, well good luck.

I think to myself, thinking is futile, verbalization a sin. My mind falls deeper into the lake that I don’t even see. In the depths, like a helpless prey animal in the mad desert of your mind and soul. Where ideas are now visualized without verbalization. He finds something calming, a dance of forms, a strange picture enters, of a stage, and figure approaching. A ballerina, she starts her furious dance, blood falls as she the lands her first jump, unbothered, with a glare in her eyes, completely unconcerned with the world, a face glaring ethereally into nothingness. A whirlwind of a dance, and of blood, and of tearing flesh, in stripes her skin starts to rip and tear, they start to flow off of her like a silk blanket. The dance continues and with fury and vigour she dances even harder, even faster, her muscles like paper tore. Ripped more and more, the dance did so, that she is mostly a skeleton already, and yet she dances. And yet she dreams, there is barely anything left of her. In a whirlwind of jumps, blood and body parts, in the end after the last landing, the last of her flesh falls off leaving nothing but a skeleton, frozen in time, on stage, as a statue of blood, its meaning scattered around the stage. The audience in silence.

At last, I remember, I remember her again and a sweet fleeting smell takes me back to our love. Love, what a joke, a fleeting and intense pain of not being with another, sharp and deep. An addiction, hurting more than it gives, love, knives offered on a silver plate. A dissection, of the soul, the human experiences physical symptoms of this affliction. It is an affliction of life, a guided instinct, or curse.

But I cannot resist the temptation. Like Autumn leaves my soul falls on my life. Like the fading before winter, I fade into my night. My soul blessed in disguise. Today again I fell from the skies. To a world never seen before. It haunts me, as a miracle. How could it ever be so, so peaceful a stance in front of pain. Its softness haunts me again and again, to this day, and again today. Not only haunting, self-realizing, appearing again, in the shrouded night, ever on the inside, my love for you may never die. I meet her again, a promised night. I tell her of my love, she says she loves me. I know that it's a lie, I kiss her sweeter. Yet she never knows, nor will she ever. I will die again because of her.

The separation cuts deep into my flesh, these disgusting rules of life, why do I have to die so for such feelings. Truly life’s vanity and disgusting truth never ceases to amaze me.

The spring passed yet the hole the thing that used to fill me left hurts just the same. Self destruction by love, or perhaps a double suicide, it might be for me. I am truly unsure whether I will leave you sanely. And I am already insane enough, I might die in your warmth.

Love truly is a chief enforcer of suffering, in the service of nature and life. Hells gates are littered with the dead bodies of lovers. And who is to condemn suicide, If man has any natural right than it should be his own life, a suicidal man is not sick, he is simply, more alive than he can bear. And so he dies, but by the time they kill themselves they were dead already. Is it not more horrible to be dead as if you were alive. At least let them be in peace, or not be in peace, anyhow it is a most logical solution for life. And no one has the right to force another not to die.

I love you like a rotten corpse its grave. I love you like a pig loves to be slain. I love you as a rat likes to be in a labyrinth. Like life your suffering, like poison its victim, like victim its poison, we love each other, in a certain way, but not all the same. Love is as cruel as one would expect from the forms by which life perpetuates itself. The never ceasing lack of an untouchable reality, which can be lifted only temporarily.

A deep feeling of lack, which even in the darkness of my lakes touched, rather started butchering my nerves. I lay down and try to remain as calm as possible as I start collapsing from the headache, and nervous overexposure, I feel dead inside, feelings of fleeting pleasure in everlasting moments yet its futility invades, sometimes I was the most estranged from myself with you. Love so intense it breaks the mind, a melancholy of frightening distance, physically nothing, a duality of pain, of extasy, another world of fear and trembling, a world of beauty a ray of sunlight reaching the bottom of the lake. And yet it hurts, and yet life tears, tears away on man ceaselessly, in the name of life, all of nature will be subjected to its forces, to its will. The conductor of this train of madmen.

I finally fall asleep, and dream a world of fog that obscures all, a fog trough which one must pass through, a labyrinth in which I wander alone without hope, fleeting images appear as mirages only, cruel jokes of god. And a joke told to the audience kept in their seats by force.

True horror sets into the soul not when you encounter another, but when you encounter yourself. There is not escape from yourself, no chance for redemption, you are only yourself, but you are you yourself despite life, there is no you in life, only life. Self-destruction is the only pleasure I have left. Savour each their tastes, the death drive takes over.

I wake and walk down to the river to smoke and read. The wind blows softly, and my heart pains strongly. The flow of the water, like the waters of life, unpredictable and chaotic. The trees dance slowly their leaves turning yellow, like a rainbow of colours, the red of some, like that of blood, and indifference. Yet graceful, beautifully cruel, the sky is clean and deep blue with grey undertones. The scene takes me away into a world of colours, my love faded not, perhaps, I thought. My eyes tear up, as if the beauty of the scene was looking at me as well, I was locking eyes with the beauty of the scene, and it stuck, all was beauty, I lit a cigarette and took out my book. About three cigarettes later, I notice that she is here and approaching me. We greet and kiss, in this ecstatic state her company felt like laying in a bed amidst a burning house. The wild beauty of nature, as sharp as we ourselves. The world can go and play their childish games somewhere else.

No point in living any other way, if I have to live in such a way, I will pain myself more and more, so that I can explore more of the world of colours. Without hesitation I throw myself into the hole appearing in front of me. Never coming out as the same person, to die more than you can remember, life like a sea of misery on which sometimes you meet another person, lost, out on sea like you. And then you are lost together, I always appreciated when someone was willing to sit next to me and watch the violent stars, hungry for blood, emitting radiation. Watch as the world burns the same ashes another day, together back to back, lip to lip. But when they find the illusions which suit them they all leave, or I leave them. For the thing I truly cannot bear, is to have to conform to stupidity with people. When they are soaked so deep, in false images, lies, that they are not visible anymore. Or rather they, their truth was simply, altogether lost, it becomes a necessity to feed their illusions or they become weary of you, hateful and hostile. And I cannot bear to sacrifice so much, to suppress so much of my being that most of me is simply bored. And in pain for its suppression, I leave them for I cannot bear to be with another, more alone, than by myself. With the spicy Autumn wind she left, as she has arrived before. The world a spinning spiral of reminiscence, of the immediate and the old of the past. Her presence invades my surroundings as she leaves, as if in each soft movement of the world, and in its dystopian crazed wind which surround me, she was there, in the most reality bending but visceral reality, in her absence. In her absence she was there, on each leave, in each movement of the trees, in the air, and each new blow, seems to carry a scent of her complete being, each blow of the wind.

Nights, with wide open windows, a swim, in the beauties of the forms, when a being can feel so blessedly free. A world alive to the highest degree, that it makes you dizzy, but these flows of the world converge yet in another. Smoking in my window with her, the tired soft hours of the morning hug you as you hug each other, strongly, under soft blankets. The feeling of the morning breeze, and I am lost, in her being, she is just as lost, in herself, just as I in me. So sometimes, just sometimes, why not get lost in another.

Now, alone, in peace, all that I can see, just another sudden scream, of hunger, for the rain, the never ceasing song, of all those sirens. Where are the clouds? Where have they gone? Where is the promised rain, where is the chaos I need? Where, where, where I take on my coat, and approach the door. But just a moment before I touch the handle, I feel a surge trough my lungs and throat, of irritation and I start coughing, so that I barely remain standing. I have been coughing these last days, but none of my concern. I leave my apartment, light a cigarette and turn left at the first opportunity, not for any particular reason, rather with the reason to get lost. The streets, mostly three stories high buildings, beautifully decorated pieces of architecture, now pale sickly representations of their former selves. Over decades, of erosion and neglect, they only summon the picture of a fallen civilization when one looks at them.

I wander aimlessly, on empty streets or worse. My mind lost in a world of death. A homeless man shouts: how could you, how could you, live or live not without death. If my in my life, were I not certain of my ability to kill myself, at any time or die of natural causes, that is, of any cause. My life should be focused on nothing but curing the last sickness the last illusion remaining, life itself. I walk past with an unconcerned face, yet truly the last invention of man, shall surely be, death. And end to invention, an end to life, a no to existence. Yet in the most radical sense, only I, and a few live true. True life resides not in ignoring pain but in embracing it, feeling dead in life, the only true way to feel alive. I crave, nothing but more destruction of me, the more of suffering, that is life integrated the more alive. Alive to the point of death. Death is the final point of living, have you ever truly lived if you did not take your own life? If of natural causes, other than yourself, you wait for death, you truly volunteer only to be dead so long as to abandon any true life.

In the end all true life turns towards death. The purpose of art is to die, in the eyes of the audience, while the purpose of life is to die in the eyes of death. When not even death wants you, you gain a certain primordial disgust towards it. So weak, so simplistic, death appears simply as a pitiable infant of creation, never fading, never filling the depths it was supposed to. A play put on by children, society is, in my time one, in the other, a complete else morale subjugates. Trough all of it sympathy, a feel for another one’s pain presides. Yet pain is the only driving factor of life devoid of illusions, it continues life at the peril of it. Barbarism you say, life I admit, the only truth of it, I admit, nothing plays on life as much as death, in practice, people are dead for life itself. Why to live if death concours all its proceedings, life is itself a rebellion, conscience a chief mistress of suffering. Yet is it not life that, through all of life urges you to die, to the hands of love or concern. All is lost in the eyes of perspective. Ultimately towards death is the only true way to live, in truth, all other forms simply seem as avoidance, death appears as the only truth of life, death as living, to the extreme, life without death signifies a meaningless void of existence, a thousand times worse than living as a self-destructive activity. The truth of existence, life for life’s sake is the ultimate death of the self.

To love fully, is to die in the arms of the one embracing you. The truth of life is to die fully in your experience as nothing but pain and suffering.

The sun sets in vain, and birds chirp blood, all across the land a red mist rises up. From truth to life, to death, of all the why’s of all of pain. Only he lives, whose worth enough to die, in facing the true horror of life. Living with suffering is in fact the only way to live truly, all else is illusion if the immediate which seems to cease without difficulty, to suck all life out of the mundane.

I awake in my dread, I do not even resist, it takes the continual sacrifice of the self, and of reality, to be something. Yet most are nothing without continuation of their self. A chasm only love could leave in the heart of the damned. Tearing, and twitching, with knowledge and futility alike, everything appears as a dagger, in life.

Which one do you fall into? Choose, or stupidity chooses for you.

I wake with her, her pain, her torment, her torture, or torturer, as she is to me. Perhaps I appear as the same, the same thing, a torturer of life. Keeping her imprisoned in the same cage of desire, and love, which encircles my reality. Freedom is naught, love is free, to set ablaze the prison it builds. The freedom to love, is a freedom to be a prisoner. The freedom to suffer another’s pain, as well as your own, freedom to disengage yourself in self-destruction. Two sufferers, for two sufferings, suffer fourfold, for the peace within. Within each other lies a gaze, their own image, a lofty dream, love destroys, and creates. Eros drives Thanatos, to keep it moving, a page turns, yet nothing new, turns out, around or found.

A prisoner digging his own grave, life continuously evades the real. I am but the murderer of my ideas into form, for a while, a time of total death. Over the sun rising, over empty glasses of wine, over an empty shell of me, shines despair, another day. The sun overhead, repeats its act of yesterday, why would you expect, under the sun, a new day. Nothing new, ants of life, build your castles, on those lies, a truly new day, will never rise.

A suicide by life, of living to the limits, at the border between life and death, existence gains perspective, a new dimension, the real evades, experience shapes. Circling it, spiralling towards its epicentre, something which pushes away. You can approach it only, in a curious way, to live in a mind, each and every death. Where a border crossed appears as joke, laugh at your mind, a pathetic you. Only by following, a certain smell of death, the closer you come, the more you see, life truly never rests, its truth carved into an invisible nothing. The closer you come, the closer to life, which truly is. Life directed at life, an ignorance of death, prevents you from dying a truly passionate life.

Life and death, the same side of two coins, in embracing one you invert its meaning.

To assert a non-predicate, is to unite the seemingly separate, simply to rip it apart. Thereby creating a new dimension of movement between the two.

To put the two sides of the coin, for it to have a new, empty side, which is not a side but the lack of one.

Thereby having a coin with one side only, and a non-side, a lack of a side, where the binary is lost in the infinitude of the other.

Ahh, how the past will seem new in the future, how the new will seem old, even in its past. Life like a cloud floats between itself. The floor of existence slides beneath our feet, as if to say the sky is still as can be, the pull of the air, its abundance seems to choke you like a lover from death.

I wake again, and again, and again and again and again, why does this dream, life, wake me from myself, why can’t I sleep, again and again. Midnight still, my mind wanders on, where me is, ask away, not me, I don’t know. In time, in world, a death occurred, yours in me. I still love you, my desire, however, eludes you. Life you wench, you actor in the self, invades all the sacred, with a common stench, like life, flows capital, enshrouding all, like capital, fakes life, all that it can do. My greatest grief, a loss of desire, nothing, nothing calls me anymore, how I lived, at least death seduced. Now, all phenomena disgust me even more. Writing on my hand, with an increasing hatred for the cry. The ink turns to blood, autonomy frees my mind, yet trapped I still am, in my very freedom, I butcher my hand to bones, I smile in a fever. Yet even this, satisfies not, fleeting in a moment, I grasp for it not. In feeling intensely, the lack of intensity, I go for a walk alone, the autumn burns on, the cold air like blades cut on and on. Yet even this, can’t force a smile, my face deadens on, the cold, the blades, the pain the sorrow, like before pleasure, as pure, now an inverted, sadly stricken, fetishized soul. Cannot bring anything but bore, worse than it a lack, not just mine, but of everything in the world, something which is not cannot fill a whole. Pleasure in pain, along with it, loses all its force, and spirit in me. Not a grin or a smile, an expression of dread or of pain from life, my face frozen, staggeringly so. I try to scream, inside at least, but find no candle, to be lit, or anything, to light with. I think it would be bad, if anyone saw me, but realize instead, not even that, can move me again. The universe, in wishing to scream, created life, me in wishing to scream died, again, one too many times.

One foot after another, one tree after another, the sky remains above, my innermost remains dead, cursed are the unafflicted, cursed are the afflicted. Nothing creates a shred of tension, a shred of care, I scare myself, even scarier I’m not even scared, cannot even care, something in me lost, something never there, absence lost, not filled, not treated, lost. Yet, still, always it seems, I’m still in pain. Pain? Not pain perhaps for I don’t feel, yet I am not well, out of place, out of time, no connection to the outside, not even to the inside. When the absence in the middle, takes on the form, of absence of an absence, nothing can be spoken of. Quietly in my mind, unaware of the outside, I sink in the silence of the dark. Now that I can look, around the trees, under which I walk, I stop and look, a strange nothing, between it and “me” it feels so distant, the world twirls and shrinks, nothing of it feels. Nothing of myself, alone, away from me, away from the world, I touch the bark it does not even seem real. Just as “me” a dreaded dream, the pervasive world to which “me” belongs, the sickness, the core and constructive force of this illusory nightmare. Perhaps God simply killed himself, seeing what he created, this must be what it was like, looking at the world for him. He was or not was, matters not, which is worse a God so wretched or incompetent as this, or a universe so drenched in blood and cruelty that to continue existing it must either be indifferent, malicious or childish. It must be like this, indifferent, and disconnected to look upon the world from beyond its perspective. To look from outside through everything from the outside to the inside. Time might just be, a last ditched effort to lift the pain, a childish cry from the universe, an infinite and stupid escape from the hell of the now into the hell of tomorrow. Ultimately bringing nothing, but more of the same, a variety of expression for the same ultimate reality, drenched in blood, tears, and the indiscriminate murder of the murderable, suffering itself. Or perhaps Mäinlander was correct, equally plausible, we are, and live on, the decomposing body of God, who killed himself because he saw that existence is not worth a dime, in fact he would pay with our sufferings, his parts, in his disintegration, his suicide, simply to avoid it.

I cannot bring myself to take another step, a meaningless infinitude of restless possibilities, none part of affect. Senseless, always has been, I lay on the ground. Reality appears now as one flat field, as long as the eye can see, but see what, skies obscured by dark clouds raining lightly, meaninglessly without effort or energy, infinitely towards their deaths, always approaching from a distance which never changes. Everfading, everlasting, crying their melancholic sonnet of death, weeping without their will, without the ability to affect, even themselves. Prisoners trapped in their very being, reduced to a silent observer, forced to feel themselves never ceasing to fade. They, in all likelihood do not even connect to themselves, or place value on it for it just hurts more when finally, that part too rains away towards the ground, and a new, same yet different part of them, was always there. This strange, dark, whirlpool of a sky, so dark it can barely be made out, only as it were, almost feeling only, its movements, not being able to pin it to any true object of the sky. The horizon non-existent, darkness, the whole world but a strange silhouette of their selves. If I were not to feel, distantly, an observation of my senses, that the drops of this strangely lukewarm pour of senseless water, as senseless perhaps as my very existence, I could not even tell that it was raining from my vision. I myself, strangely, disgustingly warm in my shivering, like a rush of blood flooded my senses. Barely see, mostly feel, as if I could, observing my indiscrete nervous activities, from a distance where they seem just as distant, and elusive as this view, so pervasively still forcing me to know of it, not through its appearance, only in the movements of its appearance, the movement of seemingly nothing. The stark nothingness of time makes itself known, forcefully, wretchedly, a rape of the mind and the senses, each second a death, with each one I wish that I could, and would scream, yet another death immediately takes its place and staggers, perpetually, no possibility of reaction, of affect. In the face of this overwhelming line of deaths, any reaction, by implication loses any sense, any value, just as death itself, for one another, another for one, all non-exists without sense. An overarching fornication above and beyond anything, of the senses themselves, experiencing, humiliating, and feasting on their very goal, their very purpose, making their very conclusion unreachable and futile. Intensely, without intensity, erosion of anything, over and over and over and over again, where life returns seemingly simply to be painfully stripped from its light, forces beyond comprehension, lighting a candle, that is no more, simply to blow it out, it shouldn’t even be possible, yet the cosmic horror of existence somehow manages, to even kill the non-existent.

A seizure of emptiness, overwhelming the senses, such is life, even nothing can be too much to handle, in fact, humanities activities are exhausted in trying pitifully, to avoid the nothing being too much, yet even so all you can use to achieve this, even if only temporarily is nothing but nothing itself. Everything is nothing, novelty, nothingness with a new face. A pathetic dance where, nothingness is trying to fill itself with itself. Alone with itself, a child, in the vast empty space, with nothing to do. Imagines, and plays, dresses themselves in new clothes, fictions of nothingness. All the greatness, all the suffering, all wars, hunger, politics and starvation, for naught, for nothing but the unaware, a void without a self, without a face, for its childish perverse enjoyment, and entertainment I am here, a figment of nothingness with a mask shattered beyond comprehension. Me, shattered so, unrecognisable, beyond pain, I, nothing, still hurt. And hurt so, such that I am frozen, in pain, no movement, only passing.

The pain used to taste sweeter, the skies used to scream louder, being tasted more joyously pitiful, and hope more cynically futile. Even this, the enjoyment of destruction, of concepts of man and the world, its dissolution, its deconstruction now loses all meaning. And beyond it, all refined into a dust more fine than silk, my pain, without jouissance, it, revealed as a process, rather than a goal, disperse into nothing, the human framework, the mind, seems so, evernothing, such as to set free pain, absence, of all, and even of me, to freeze me in me, to freeze nothingness into itself, lack, absence, pain yet remains but it as well, loses all significance, becoming as bleak as the rest, not a part of affect anymore, but as all else, fading into the tapestry of existence as a meaningless screeching symphony played by no one, signifying nothing, from nothing to nothing, and in this being truly that, to the fullest, nothing, I am at last everything.

It seems now that even the pain, that once formed my, the guiding light itself, the last hope of my path, led, in the end to the same nothingness as all I felt disgusted by, even itself, my last excuse to remain, yet alive, disperse, ash like all else floating in meaningless directions on the surface of the lake, from the bottom of which I observe, frozen outside, containing all on the inside, nothingness, that is to say everything.

Cioran, your last escape is a prison in itself, as hollow as all others.

Nothingness and everything in the end can create no escape, polar opposites not bringing about a new dimension by tension, for they in the end are revealed to be, one and the same.

The silences, the most significant parts of a conversation, the silences are nothing, signifying that the rest is so, also, just as much, just as much nothing as the rest. Instead of the nothingness with a face, facelessness becomes the face of the faceless. On the non-stage of non-existence non-dances all of non-being.

In the end, the non-word, an expression in itself, of non-expression, the truth of existence, all have tried, and failed to convey in words shows itself inverse to expression itself, and a non-expression is revealed to be the only truth of life worth not saying. Not because of all that is unsaid, but for all the nothing, not said. Silence, is not, and so, is true. Silence finds its meaning not in giving weight or new meanings to expressions, but in its very own autonomous non-meaning of absence.

The silhouettes of this non-place fade into the non-sky the non-ground and the non-me, and become just as indiscernible as the rest, not even in its movements, is my dream revealed. The slow downpour stopped, but the very moment it did, it seems, its consequence finally manifests in an instant, after infinite lifetimes of its never ceasing self-expression, of no consequence but its own frigidity, finally it can rest in darkness, for no one to see, not even itself, it would have preferred it that way, his long arduous journey embarrassing, if it could still attach meaning or care of such things, its only true wish comes through, to cease to be, a reason without cause or consequence. Finally, it dissipates, drowns in the darkness of its daughter, this body of water, its blessing, final, finally, consequence. Now, nothing to be seen, nothing to be, nor me, no pain, all but a distant memory of something which is no more, no I, for pain was, the first and last of the subjective framework.