07 — Tiring Intuition
Okay, then this is how it has to be, a tiring, counter-intuitive way. When you have to just drag and sloth your mind out of this mess. Never mind, I’ll do what’s necessary for one to conceive the kind of deprivation one is capable of. Words are barely useful in evoking empathy unless already induced by a preset condition. There on it’s all humma-gumma. A pure exercise in self-restraint, retreating a foot against the bull-horns of forgiveness, about to ram through our paper-thin lives. I gotta do this, I gotta do that, before I can actually arrive at a simple system of living. Say that it’s great, say that it’s the best I’ve ever licked. Then I’ll believe you’re telling the truth, else it’s all a mere lie that I will not trust. Ignore me, I’m using already known tactics, so presumptuous of me to believe that you are an unkempt asshole who barely believes in getting manipulated by creeds and arbitrary conclusions. This is how it had to be done, this is how it is done. I can’t keep storing all these memories in my cupboards, they will wither away someday, and it will be a symbol of wasteful existence. I can’t find new things to work upon, neither new thoughts strike my mind. All I find myself capable of is managing a multiverse universe that threatens to break down before me if I fiddle with it far too much. Stop waving your dick on my face, it won’t incite me to become a better man. Rather I would be tempted to punch you hard and then cry.
After all was done and due, there’s only one thought that stayed far ahead in the back of my mind, that you did indeed fucked me up hard and clean and nice and soft. Now I am left with so little to have and so much to do that might as well it would be a great favor done on myself to leave my hometown and travel to a far-off land where things are spoken as they should and words are meant as they would. Such vivacity, the only counter to butt-naked, soul stripping simplicity, so much so that you know how it is, how it always is. I mean I love my hometown, but it’s growing on me, and I don’t wish for it to break me apart, like a wine-intertwined and already corroded building rotting away at eternity’s gate. So much has already been seen, and so little already perceived, that it’s best to quit the mundane struggle once and for all. I mean life’s not too harsh, neither too soft. It’s the way it is, can’t keep filling it more and more till I am bloated like a dead corpse washed ashore. I don’t know if I’d want that. Guess it’s better anyway than walking by the shore like the dead corpse you are, just pretending to be a living man.
And so we shall start raising the sirens all throughout our streets, barking like the hooligans, shining like the young guns. That will be what defines our past and leads us through our youngest days. Parading naked on the beach, shouting joy, gray dismay. Singing birds and nightful woes, that’s how we’ll try to forget ourselves, shivering silver lines on the linen mattress that burns as a rage, rising on the flowery case, buried in my backyard,
I won’t say that I’m not justifying what’s being paid to me in this world, but that’s how I have to prove my essence. Else the world will keep fucking me over again and again. When money matters are concerned no friend comes ahead, family turns their back, you’re left standing nude while the world stares at your live corruption. Indeed such poverty is a bitch, but you gotta withstand it, bear it, burn it on your chest and breast till your nipples blacken and shine with tarred ruthlessness of those who spit vile venom onto you. How can you ever evade the immense unworthiness of your brethren who refuse to even look at you in your lowest of the lows, but try to suck you off in your best spirits.
I know I have been sucking on dicks ever since I was born, and now that I have nothing to suck upon, I make do with my brute little ego. Rub it and titillate it till it turns black and blue, till its veins are exposed to the deepest level, and I feel fulfilled and complete. A narcissist’s delirium. I can’t think of a better way to live a life as fundamentally concentric than my own. That way the universe devolves me while I denounce its presence. The pressure keeps rising to break me apart, but I keep surmounting myself with ceremony and a pronounced vigor. I know the end will come soon, but I know I will stay alive till then.
Alright then this is the last stride
We will surely hit the last mile
We know we drive our wides wide
And keep our lows till sun dies
You know you gotta live the spite
And be become the greatest life
If it comes a shallow night
Our shades will tweak a falling fight
No-not at all. It is contemptuous to the nth degree. What have you ever learned of self-preservation, what have you ever realized about crafting a sense of dignity? All your life you’ve washed the asses of those who spit on you and now you rave about a deplorable sense of inadequacy. I mean surely you should’ve raised a horn before, made things evident before they began to dawn upon you and tear you apart. Only if you could’ve gathered grain-worthy courage then, you wouldn’t have had to face the sea salt now and forever again. Things can be improved still. But do you want them to change or be the way they never can be perceived?
