Shakespeare inspired

Down in the dungeons of we form: its natural oubliettes of wet rock are the chambers of our birth, and swarming all around its entrances like buzzing clouds of fireflies are the passions we feel in our deep hearts, those which are bridges or like the strung piano wire between Ebih and the summits of her sister-mountains, upon which courageous line-dancers walk their elegant promenades with dire arrogance!

 ...What it is, we cannot know, but we can know that it makes the flower grow out of the soil and into the air of this world... in principle, humans follow this pattern as well, and we are too rooted down below, in the mountain’s hard undergrowth and in the subterranean tunnels of thick, fossorial quietude running like veins of the finger in every direction…

2016 maybe. pseudo-philosophy bs, but the writing is not half bad

 Is life astronomically rare, and should we therefore, as a matter of the principal of rarity in occurrence, care more for it? We can decide for ourselves, but in my heart, life by default seems overrated. Well... the proposed sacrality of it seems so at least, and in this proposed sacrality there is something which makes me want to belch! And as a measure of bitterly assured hostility, I rip the virginal cloth from its face, the cloth which veils it with the shroud of embroided and beautified dread... and beneath it reveals to me a dead body, for life is a corpse dolled-up for funeral... Beautify that ugliness and see how long the surface holds before it will crack like the tendons of an old ballerina!!! By tomorrow it will crack and peel, believe that. All dies, everything falls into death; horror to some, relief to others. Life is weird, and one may conceptualize biological life as a rarity in extremis, the odds of the cultivation of sentience and organic life being, in presumption, unfathomably rare, astronomically small –but does not rarity, the practical happening of it, exist in inevitability given it has as much time and space needed in order to cultivate it, trigger in it a response? Yes, if you have enough space and time to allow for it, rarity becomes certainty... in fact, all kinds of rarities are bound to happen, if they become enclosed in eternal and endlessly proliferating circumstance: given enough space and time, everything grows, everything happens. What some see as rare, I see as inevitable. We are inevitable, as inevitable as we are rare–we had enough space, we had enough time–we happened. And this, my reader, is the living pulse of existentialism–the philosophy which puts a dagger to the back of all other ones! Are you burning purposelessly ad infinituum, Darvaza-like? Or are you more of a piece of blackened coal?

depressing shit

Encased into the stone of history I am as an immortal pig amongst men: immortal, yes, but what pork does not rot sour in infinity?

I am unreliable in the outcome of my attempts of chastising myself. My mind and my flesh and my thoughts are all melted together into a new substance foreign even to myself, and I can not recognize it as human. I command my evil thoughts to cease but they simply do not. I doubt and I wail. I hold no mastery over the self. I try to abdicate my crown and spire, but my throne has no pretenders. My cape and robe and my purple shirt are all coal in the fire of my homestead. I evoke malignant psychic material. Memorial cadavers, remnants of some trauma. The feeling of giving up on future itself. A length of days I shall not acquire, and fortitude of spirit remains but an ideal in my heart. Nerve, guts, gallantry – ghastly spectres haunting my house! The gaze of a hero I have…but on my back, burning, as I turn away from challenges! By way of sins and spoiled chances, I shall be led to an abyss of fire, and I shall be contained therein until but coal and shame remain there down! I have met and I spoke with the harpies of the night! They are nasty creatures. Together we wandered aloof through the whistling vapors of hell. We were harassed by the madness of  hungers – religious hunger; amorous hunger; emotional hunger and all the rest of them. We drank from the sullage of heaven and leapt then forthwith into hellmouths. I am shit, I am flesh, I am mud. Dirt, rubble, ruin. A naked fetus I am – in front of the Lord but none else. I am fallen and destitute and to my own ruin I am doomed. My skin boils and my heart, a weird and gloomy thing: a fortress as useless keeping things in as it is keeping things out, it has become. Its moat is shallow and a sewer. Its gates are crumbling and dusting. Its stonework is rickety and unstable and the peasantry all around it is stricken with drought, poisonous wells and the devilish hunger for food. Things here need work and things here need care: with the exception of honey and art, left to its own devices, everything goes from okay to bad to worse. And this is a rule which applies to the existentialism of man also.

Mammon and Belial in me I cannot seem to evict. In sudden rages of confusion, I try to unroot from matter as to float like some fairy in the aether. I try desperately to forget my body but my body refuses to forget me back. To enter the storm one person and to walk out another, I try.  And I cry, I shiver, I moan! Shemihazah... I am you. I am possessed by the spirit of you – but possess I like you the resolve to forswear heaven? Indeed, I am naked and I throb like Shemihazah – but then, do we not all in front of the Lord