I divide my inheritance amongst myself; it was left me from my father, Abjection, and my mother, Self-deceit! I kneel in my own tears and I look ugly and vulnerable in the laps of my friends; even before the carcass of a deer, like this one just some few feet before me, I seem emptied of life itself! I am vertiginous and ashamed at the sight of the reflection staring back when I lower my head to drink from the puddles yesterday’s heavy rain has brought me. I want to peel my skin after what I have done; my every bone is cracked upon the torturing wheel and my hands are colored blood-red; I want companionship! I seek it and I have sought to seek it, but where does sorrow reside, and weakness, and genuine, sympathy – heartfelt understanding; harmony; beyond the scopes of human social play – except for in the pitch black ugliness of my own heart? I am a pretentious fucking pig and I browse in self-pity and weakness of heart – no better am I than the fucking children I scare with mean, irritated faces in the streets of the neighbors of my upbringing. I am apologetic; remorseful; dire; I confess in all my tongues. I gnaw all these tongues with ferocity; saliva and blood… I am drought; storm; rain; I confess in all my courts, but who will finally come about and grant me the corporeal verdict? For I want whips lashing over this white body, I am deserving of nothing else.
I am not human, but an earthquake with skin: my masochism has turned into sadism, because I do not know myself, and I feel estrangement in my skin and in great halls filled with mirrors at every direction I am an apparition, a spectre. I am wearing a shroud of scars, fitting of my dignity; terrible confessions go off like bombs upon my retina and covers in dust whatever was left of the shards of self-respect I came home to after the devil's typhoon leveled to below the ground a conscience to unattached to itself to even bear weight in the first place! Thus it disappeared in the storms of the spiritual desert, where water is pride; happiness; strength! And I, with the parched throat of conscience, took to weak shelters in camel cadavers from the sandstorms, alas, to little or no protection at all! I have wanted to pour bleach down my throat to stop future deceit from ever to grow inside the ones I love in such despicable ways again... Every word I have written – it seems to me – a fraud, so now I, with my honor at stake, will use my eloquence to sow sabotage in my own tomorrows: with words, which I choose carefully from the world's largest language to be the springboard for my self-trial – or rather self-belittlement – I will place a suicide noose around my neck. I want to tear my own tongue out so that not a single more lie will sound therefrom. I write to myself as a gesture of therapy, but, seeping with an uncomfortability and shamefulness tantamount to nothing this poor life ever has felt, I shudder in this forest, amongst whose trees I have never shuddered before, but felt security, safety, and calmness of soul! I feel the chilling of the spine at this self-mockery, which I deserve, and I, myself, am shuddersome – at least I have become.
The feelings of self-knowledge and pride rushes through the veins of my mind like the blood flows through the veins of a desomorphine addict - not at all! My self-love is a prolapsed colon and whatever comes out of it must be flushed like awkward diarrhea – fast and silent – so that no one hears it, or even smells it aloof; the vestige, even, of the fecal odor will sow and reap uncomfortable thoughts in me… I have become that weak… If there is a judging, benevolent deity now is the time to act; otherwise, fuck you, and don’t bother: I will make it my life’s work to shun the mere idea of it, the weak solace I have heard about through the years of my upbringing… I am ensnared in a heart-crushing constriction, trapped, – encircled –, by the python, and I do not know what I have gotten myself into, this “livingness”, this complete entombment into brick walls of personal responsibility, the throat-clogging judgment of a living soul… condemnation to absolute and indomitable freedom, my heredity… torn between ferocious claws of war and love protruded from an execrable monstrosity bearing life itself on its scaled reptilian back! Like a rag, strained between the hands of a life-exhausted maid, I am diluted of every drop of water… what is left of a human soul when love’s fine stream does not longer flow through it? I ask you, what is left of a human soul, when the concept of love, with all its excruciating implications, has withered to a rotted pulp, and slowly turned to muck?
In my young age, I have yet to explore the full dimensions of love – that whole new world – but I have seen beauty in gentle faces of picturesque women, I have seen friendships stronger than copper chains, I have seen family bonds that could tie even a massive galleon to its dock! But alas, I have also seen those faces grow old and wrinkled, and nothing more than bitter hags became of those ill-fated women; their only pride – the immeasurable beauty – diminished like gardens on summers end... and I can tell of countless times… I cannot even reminisce them all… but I bear in memory countless stories of friendships dissolved in petty spite… nothing more than mindless alcoholic brawls cut the bonds like knives through butter… and mothers have left their infants to the ravenous wolves in the forests by night, which has not been a rare practice in the darker ages of our history… if it is not certain, the love of a mother, then what bond can possibly endure the erosion of life? I say, none! But alas, it brings me such melancholy! Will there ever be a bond that can withstand it all, to the end? Is every human relation worthless? Is love merely a riddle, an enigma; a code, which is bearing uncomfortable truth behind layers of thinly-veiled sophistication: is love a mirage, an illusion, a euphemism: is the real word sex, love being the mere persona of procreation? Of course no one answers. But love is real, I want it to be; surely it cannot be that the collected weight of human misery, the tragic suicides, the paroxysms of brotherly violence, all the darkness of jealousy and poisonous envy following in the wake of love is merely the fruit of eon-old instincts, an iron fetter chained to the totem of nature? We cannot observe these behaviors in the animal kingdoms; beasts do not hang themselves over the body of a melancholic lover, nor do they drown in oceans of questions; they carry on, being beasts… grief is a deep cut in Gaia’s pretty face… It is a human heredity, the will and capability of love, worthy of the human soul… I have an inkling which I cannot denounce; call it a leap of faith – but love is spiritual, it must not be a bestiality; it cannot be – but of course, to know where denial, rationalization and naïve hopefulness flows into the reality of things – where one must draw a line in order to flee the morbid leech of self-deceit that will otherwise suck your veins dry – is a war in itself: thousands of casualties are daily emptied of blood…
The End Commune, autumn 2014.
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