All of this is shit.
I impose structures on myself, and even my words, but words are absolute, good for nothing pieces of crap.
I pride myself on being “good” with words, yet I despise them more than anything else.
They are acts of deception, silence wrapped (warped) by a scaffolding of tortured sound, forced into submission by our egotistic need for “communication”.
What the fuck.
I mean, if at the very least we were good at it but come on. We keep choosing to dwell in fabricated meanings stuck in a self-referential loop that is unable to go anywhere but the surface. Our entire lives are built upon metaphors of shared meaning the content of which we didn’t even get to choose.
But even that is beside the point.
Me saying “surface” implies that there is a “below” the surface and an “above” the surface. It implies that there is something deeper, something hidden, about which poets moan, wonder, lament and cum over, all at the same time.
WE create the illusion, the mystery of the Te, the virtue and principle of every single thing. We assign them meaning and them we turn it around and then we kick it in the face
(Oh please would you get the fuck out from down my window? THANK YOU!)
and say “behave! where is your essence?” as if we knew what the fuck we were talking about.
Well aware that words are lies that we like to believe in, I have never been able to finish one single story. (I lie)
why why why why
I keep asking myself. Because it may not (will not) be good enough, perfect enough, “itself” enough.
And thus you have the poor duskwalker forever trapped in that Safe, cowering in a corner, thinking about Markus and where he might be and waiting for the night to come and the Expanse to calm down and stop trying to eat him.
And Manfred, always the infant and the Witness, all at the same time, condemned to the embrace of his father’s arms as they forget Ada, doomed to be the Harbinger of the Black Sun, forever locked into that last step that would bring him to the other side of the Angel’s gate.
And the nameless woman, frozen in a multifoliate number of endless, ever-increasing, ever-recurring iterations, unable to put a bullet between the eyes of the man that was once a man and her lover, who are now the same, ready to bring about extinction.
And what about the Domes of Fate, and the ever dawning sun of Lucerna? As god bleeds away into something else, the Hierarchs make their last standstill in the Ashen Range, trying to prevent the Still Ones, soulless abominations with a consciousness, from reaching the Domes. Fanatic pricks. The enemy is always within.
Even the Gayatra river has stopped, like petrified blood in a rusted leaf.
All of them are trapped, alone and isolated, stuck and powerless, multiplying endlessly in impotent trajectories to nowhere.
Because I have deemed them not enough “themselves”.
Because I don’t imagine, I reenact.
Because I don’t create, I recreate.
Because I am bullshit and afraid that the only thing I have ever taken an interest into, the only thing I am afraid to find out I am a failure at (or even worse, MEDIOCRE AT!), is the only thing I cannot bring myself to do.
Some years ago, a guy in my town wrote a book. It was horrible. From beginning to end. It was absolute fucking trash. It was so poorly written that if, by some chance or curse that thing had come to life you would still hear it scream “PLEASE BURN ME AND RELEASE ME FROM MY MYSERY”.
(Ok, I might be exaggerating, it was mostly deadly boring with some (many) glaring grammar mistakes, but I need to raise the stakes here to make a point later)
Yet the guy presented it.
He brought it to stores and put up a webpage and promoted it and all that kind of stuff.
He loved it. He cared about it.
He was PROUD of it, goddamit.
Of fucking course, why shouldn’t he? It was his brain child!
Because it really doesn’t matter what I think, or what I say.
Because, to this day, only one truth remains incontestable:
he dared create something
and I have yet to stop fearing.
Thanks for reading.