The plague is already here. Specifically within the post-modern context, it's easy to realize just how empty the space we inhabit really is; full of all the junk, clutter, noise, and distraction. We're meant to see nothing as it really is and in return we get clever packaging and promises of a whole new you. Although the bargain really is about you shutting the fuck up and ignoring the fact that we live in a pre-fab, sterile world that's been made so safe and clean that anything even remotely dangerous or true eventually becomes just another market. It's all been said much more clearly by much better writers, but again: within the post-modern context this is exactly what I feel. This is what comes pouring out when ink hits paper, or fingers hit keys.
------
And then it seems that I've become so goddamn frustrated that I just want to erase everything I've ever fucking written and replace it with, "fuck this." As though that will help me feel better. Not to say that a small act of destruction of my own creation may not be needed, but replacing anything with such a void and depthless expression merely veils the fact that the world hurts. Being in the world hurts me. I hurt when I can't express how I truly feel. I hurt because the world seems like a sick fucking joke played on all of us. Those who've really got it figured out end up laughing with the cruel joke, at their own expense, because that seems the best way to cope. So I fight for some kind of reason to not give up amongst the bullshit, within the vortex, outside of the abyss. Who knows, maybe my humanity is dying, but shit is starting to look more humorous as the days go on; but it takes a sick kind of mind to find this decay and excrement funny. The smell of rot can be beautiful, after all flowers emit gorgeous scents as they break down. Your love of daisies or lilacs or roses or orchids is a love of decomposing organic matter. There is an almost nihilistic beauty in this fact.
No comments:
Post a Comment