What is morning, but the absence of night? I am older, more aged than I look, from the outside. It’s the inside, the viscera, entrails, messed, as they are, that is where the real work is done; all else is deception. No two ever the same, so it is. Sleeping is life, wakefulness, death. This, so I have come to learn, unhappily, is the way it is, or should be, or will be, the world as it is. Consciousness, this whorish inconvenience, is much overrated. Perhaps all this, this whatever it is, is a clever illusion, nothing more. Who’s to say? A phantom or a ghostbody, they have no say in the matter, whatsoever. Flesh yielding to flesh, nothing more, I suspect.
The sky, even though it is blue, azure, cerulean, is meaningless, at best. Not even an ocean, bluer than God’s eyes, is worthy of metaphor. All miming incoherence, lips chewed purple, nothing more. As children we mimic, like monkeys, little inconsequential apes, what we are fed through the senses of touch, hearing, sight, and smell. We give back, as told, what we have learned, been told to learn, nothing more. Any creativity, imagination, is shamed and beaten into resistance, as compliance, never individuality, is desirous, nothing more. When we reach adulthood, beaten and exhausted, things change, and the miming stops; we give back nothing except our own vomit, a mark of our individuality; lips chewed purple, yet bluer. It is one month, to the day, that this bastard child, a monster, was given birth to. I can’t go on; I must go on. This blue sky, so indifferent to my indifference.
I don’t recall anything, as there is nothing to remember. Memories pay false witness to remembering, adding to the illusion of being something rather than nothing at all. These apertures through which souls and dogsbodies pass unnoticed, scolding this meaninglessness that knows no better, nor cares to. Feeding this insatiable hunger for more (of what) through this gorehole where food and liquids are added and removed at will, so it seems. This too, nothing more than a flimsy illusion of something rather than nothing, a regress into madness. Thirty days passed unnoticed, yet leaving an indelible mark on my thoughts, just thoughts, nothing more. Can it go on? It can’t go on, it must go on. It will go on, or there will be nothing, disguised as something, a memory perhaps, not worth the bother remembering.
