something about writing
Something about writing makes me feel evil. I feel guilty. Why can I express ideas I have no interest in easily as is asked of me, but when all this, these, the most unimaginably real experience and truth of being real as can be qualified fail to resolve in writing. Have I created a prison of more rot than dying? I, me not trapping, butchering. I cast the gate that had, staying open, the presented opposite of salvation through worth and exposing. Salvation in having been exposed. But, no. Saying that most beautiful, seed-of-life-bearing-fruit opposite was killed by my non-temperance, and by my hate, which I boasted through and of to show security in myself was not truth wholly. By my hands, which, being the tappers, felt physically the murder of that door and it’s showing gift opposite. By aggression. Previously unpossesed aggression. Aggression bizarrely being used here, aggression out of place. Rich aggression. I felt ready to tear the memory through and out of something, to deny synapsys their sisyphistic destiny, to give cessation to nostalgia and its greedy greedy holdings. I wanted to cause the gross dog-end of potential sharing. I guess because I was mad. This, still not enough of my rage against that most beautiful, seed-of-life-bearing-fruit opposite. There was no carnal desire; this was carnality defined. Carnality verbatim. I, moving on, no longer wanting this extinction. This now was the swearing of the man. I needed to pull apart each fibrous strand that clung between enantiodromiac sides of this writing door. I eagered choking it, wrapping my power around it completely, I needed brutality to be shown. There wasn’t chance for reconciling this difference. Murder was response. My response had to be evil, being generous to imagine recompense or merging between myself and the option of the door was enough sympathy to condemn myself. I would not do that. I had to be mad. The severest dose of any answer now wouldn’t have changed how I acted. I'd like to think I'm better than the God for this, you were so weak you seceded control to apathy, you were cowardice. I saw the fault. Pure malfunction. I acted, certainly brutishly and harsh but still with great determination. And you? Had I been the one to give my children the gift you had, I know certainly no one would kill it, why would they think too? Was it not a gift so special they couldn’t? Was it not THE answer? Was it not free? It wasn’t, my testament provided, This, o’ God; the repercussion. To you being unwise, you acting mad. I hope you feel it being butchered. I hope this, the memory I shred, this, the wholeness I reject. This, the slaughtered door. Its peroration. Releasing from this was lust, and my God was that truth. What evil casting by you, the God. To stymie this truth. If blasphemy was as fulfilling as this revolution I had made against all the nothingness God had given me, how devilish life must have been. My hatred, my insanity, had been canonized then as the two lesser costs of being good. Here now, was time. Time alone with myself. Time previously unbelonging to man. It was darkness, retired originally. Time being subproductial, it was not mad. Tomorrow, if what is truth stays, should be the denouement of what I've ever been. Tomorrow, perhaps I shall forfeit my role as the rock underneath. Tomorrow, when another group of schoolboys come and pick us up to throw, they won’t miss me below the rest of the rocks and scums and debris. They will see that I am right for throwing. That the weight that kept me in the sandbank was given to the God, and not me. They will see that I am right for throwing and I will be cast into the pond forever. Perhaps that will be tomorrow. But right now I am waiting along the margin of the shore, sitting stilly here on our sandbank with the friends given to me. It is cold on this night. The cold tide pushing in, and the cold wind blowing out.
But, as I peek between the cracks in the rocks above me, the sky is split up even more beautifully.
Posted Oct 12, 2022, 10:15 PM UTC