2015

I make my life a piece of art, I grapple with life, I meditate on entropy; I kiss the white cranium of death. I lick the lung-wound of Christ and I suck my oxygen out therefrom, and all the while, the white-robed ones sit on fluffy clouds in the heavens, eating perfect grapes, fingering perfect harps, esteeming the aesthetics of tedium, and taking meaninglessness for granted as salvation... what does grappling with absurdity mean to the people down on earth, and what does it mean to me? And the ones sucking wine from the nipples of the naked and innocent cherubim – what does it mean to them!? And what did it mean to Christ? The acceptance of personal mortality precedes always any tolerance for human existential conditioning, for the very moment of this realization is the phenomenological eureka-moment of existence, a moment of surging wakeness and of yet another puzzle-piece of clarity – and it is for this reason that I have cut myself open with tired knifes... and that is why I spat cursed poison in Saint Peter’s face when he welcomed me! And it is for this reason I have pondered the act of total suicide! Romanticized it. I think I deserve to suffer. And that is what Saint Peter cursed me with, as I left paradise, my personal Casus Luciferi… He said to me: "Now you may die and now you may suffer"! And I said to him: yes indeed, fool – don’t you understand that it is the very point and meaning of my departure?!