Late-night emo sessions coming at ya! This was written several months back. Not much has changed.
It’s just me and the dark. Laying here, sprawled among the wasted shards. There’s nothing left to give me that little warm feeling. I have failed and I’m pushed right to the jagged edge of this little reality.
I’ve never been so close to absolute night. There’s nothing out there. Nothing for me. Pinpricks of light sail the silence. Little bubbles of light and life. Could I swim that far? Would they have me even if I did? I’m trapped in this vacuum tube and I’m running out of time. Once the glass brakes it’ll be drowning time.
I can feel the pressure rising, and it’s already imploding. I can already feel the shards tearing flesh. This life, my world, cutting me to pieces. Love and hope and little moments of condensed light, all tearing me apart in a slow inevitable concussion a lifetime long.
All I can do is close my eyes as the world I’ve known shatters, leaving me to the crushing depths. I know I’m drowning. And I know it’s my fault. I know I should have been bold. I should have been shrewd. I should have sold my little life whole-sale and went out to fight in that big bad void. I should have fought and killed. I should have kicked and stabbed and taken everything that could be torn free.
Now all I can do is sell this life a shard at a time. Pull theses frozen spikes from my flesh. Sell them at a bargain. Sell them to live another day, washed up on some alien stretch of void. Dream of the vacuum tube. No, instead dream of the glories that could have been – maybe what can still be achieved, if only I can hang onto enough of these burning fragments long enough to make it to the day. Dream of the day I can use what I still hold to make a fresh reality to burn away the dark and the pain.
I’m out of time and out of options. The walls are too near – closer upon every measure. Doors are closed and lights fading to null. It really shouldn’t worry me. A life spent lingering in the spaces between possibilities, sniffing at uncertainty, always knowing that ruin was inevitable. The best days were spent firing off riddles into the dark. Questions, statements, curiosities. Little flares placed to navigate the night lands, each a living sanctuary. Imperfectly made, usually incomplete. DNA unstable.
And now mutated horrors come back looking for me. My miserable little zombies, they have become. Unfulfilled. Hungry. Seeking. Stuck between the walls and the abortions of dreams, hideous refractions of the reality I wanted nothing of. Now I am a pathetic parody of my creations, and I know, deep down, they were always prophesy.
All refuge is comprised of nightmare spaces. My fellow travellers urge me into this one or that one, but one other door reopens. All know of its existence, but they dare not speak its name. It is a vilified space. It is cold and absolute, a one-way deal, but it proposes a personal redemption and an end to horror. There is no anxiety or despair or picking between nightmares. To gather up my mutated creations and enter the oblivion that was before time, or not, that is the final question.
Something I wrote back in 2010 about a certain person. I think younger me did better writing than current old me. Not sure why it is titled “The Lament of Doom”.
You probably have no idea why I lost my temper and abruptly ended the conversation. Instead you will invent a theory from the omnipotent maelstrom you call reason. The effigy has already been constructed and the pyre assembled. You will divine my malign intent from failure to submit to the inquisition. Yet again I will burn. It is not only me; there are more for your righteous hate to consume. Though the world is dark, and evil, and ignorance reign supreme, there is hope. You are the Flame and The Guardian of the Bastion of Truth.
You, just and supreme, stand alone against the retarded tide of humanity that would drag us beneath the waves. You stand against greed and corruption and lies, imagining yourself up high, passing judgement on all the filth of the world – the perfect candidate for ruler of heaven and earth. Your myopic vision cleansed of the faintest hint of empathy, nothing would go uncorrected to fit the image you hold dear above all.
You have no idea of the suffering you represent. A martyr, a lord, a hypocrite. No compassion or love, only need and want – the manifestation of the blood drinking demon.
I can try to forgive you. You are what you are. But never pity. Never trust. Self-righteousness will only ever ensure a quick descent into conflict.
There is no escape and no reconcile. Living with you is a distant second best.
Disembodied space, jacked in over low bandwidth remote. The meat still processes commands, performing languid functions. It sends vague impressions of touch, but it is only the music that comes in clear, as clear as medium quality MP3 and insufficient output allows.
I feel the brain sitting uncomfortably inside the bone prison. The flesh droops, eager to secede from the confederacy of structures that push ever on against gravity and logic. Retreat to the primordial sludge. None of the components are particularly happy with current relations, the enforced symbiotic cohabitation of systems. The microorganisms that inhabit the vast megastructure are entirely unaware of the potential crisis brewing. At least, that’s what one may assume. For all that is known the little bastards are holding emergency talks and think tanks on how to coerce life from the tired biological golem. Likely, they are drawing diagrams for plans to stimulate the lizard brain. And phase two, enforce crippling sanctions on the conflicted processes in the prefrontal cortex.
Well, let them gag and blind the executive! Airs of individuality. Thoughts and feeling and self. All noise! So here I am dreaming of shutting down amid all this wonderful, horrid and crippling noise. Let the executive head-butt its rubber stamp on everything. Just leave me out of it a while, to unload the cores. And be at null.
So I’m thinking about selling all my Earthly possessions and going on a pilgrimage to the bottom of the Pacific ocean. I’d prefer Mars, but hey, those are the breaks. Local… err… political tensions are forcing me to relocate yet again. Not sure where to go from here. Antarctica or the previously mentioned bottom of ocean or Mars would be perfect. Will do science for board and lodging. Put the word out!
Oh, why couldn’t I have been born rich to disappoint my parents in the search of meaning through art? Why be born to a caste where meaning is a state-proscribed luxury? You might not think it to look at my DA, but writing was always my first love. And that’s where I did all my biggest thinking. I love 3D too, but 3D has always offered more carrot. If I’m doomed to be an artist, it’s better to associate with 3D for a living than be a writer and get nothing but stick!
But then life seems to be more stick than carrot the last several years. Some good heights, but a hell of a lot of lows. Every day is a trial of existential puzzles. And I know I’m not alone here, but some people seem to be a lot more adept at dealing with the particularly nasty snares these puzzles contain. I guess I’m a sucker for the “let’s see what happens if I press this” approach. I know, more-or-less, what’s going to happen, but still… Optimist, masochist, or gambler by nature, you decide. Trying to be a normal human animal was the worst snare I triggered. The beautiful things that came from that are indeed majestic, but the suffering that comes fourth is the kind that keeps on giving, and in disproportionate orders.
Every day I suffer with the fallout of trying to be an ordinary human when I knew, deep down, that I was an irredeemable freak. From this I’ve learned that freaks can rarely change their spots, even if they really want to. Man, if only eternal sleep were as easy as saying, see ya later. Wipe it all away and see nothing, feel nothing, be nothing surrounded by nothing. So here I am, trapped on Spaceship Earth with my human cousins and fellow freaks. And I long for the company of my fellow freaks but here we all are just trying to get by, sniffing at all those existential mines that detonate like napalm.
Ah to be born rich and above the napalm. Where those mines are purely academic curiosities.