(the word requires enlightenment)
(for the word to bring enlightenment)
(look to the source)
<>
(nothing (is))
(nothing (becomes))
(nothing (is not))
Monday, July 30, 2018
In Absentia
Does evil exist?
The university professor challenged his students with this question. Did God create everything that exists? A student bravely replied, “Yes, he did!”
“God created everything? The professor asked.
“Yes sir”, the student replied.
The professor answered, “If God created everything, then God created evil since evil exists, and according to the principal that our works define who we are then God is evil”. The student became quiet before such an answer. The professor was quite pleased with himself and boasted to the students that he had proven once more that the Christian faith was a myth.
Another student raised his hand and said, “Can I ask you a question professor?”
“Of course”, replied the professor.
The student stood up and asked, “Professor, does cold exist?”
“What kind of question is this? Of course it exists. Have you never been cold?” The students snickered at the young man’s question.
The young man replied, “In fact sir, cold does not exist. According to the laws of physics, what we consider cold is in reality the absence of heat. Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-460 degrees F) is the total absence of heat; all matter becomes inert and incapable of reaction at that temperature. Cold does not exist. We have created this word to describe how we feel if we have no heat.”
The student continued, “Professor, does darkness exist?”
The professor responded, “Of course it does.”
The student replied, “Once again you are wrong sir, darkness does not exist either. Darkness is in reality the absence of light. Light we can study, but not darkness. In fact we can use Newton’s prism to break white light into many colors and study the various wavelengths of each color. You cannot measure darkness. A simple ray of light can break into a world of darkness and illuminate it. How can you know how dark a certain space is? You measure the amount of light present. Isn’t this correct? Darkness is a term used by man to describe what happens when there is no light present.”
Finally the young man asked the professor, “Sir, does evil exist?”
Now uncertain, the professor responded, “Of course as I have already said. We see it every day. It is in the daily example of man’s inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but evil.”
To this the student replied, “Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God. It is just like darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of God. God did not create evil. Evil is not like faith, or love that exist just as does light and heat. Evil is the result of what happens when man does not have God’s love present in his heart. It’s like the cold that comes when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.”
The professor sat down.
The young man’s name — Albert Einstein.
However, right as the class thought that young Albert had thoroughly schooled the professor and was going to sit down, he continued:
"Of course, this means, as darkness is a concept created to describe the absence of light-causing light to be the reason why we see darkness-evil too is a concept that was only created because there is an absence of God in our lives."
The professor's eyes, previously downcast, were raised up to meet young Albert's yet again. "Yes, I understand," he replied, straightening his posture, "Well done, Mr. Einstein. Will you now resume being seated?"
"Yes, professor," Albert replied, "However, if I may, I have a larger point to make; I humbly ask you to let me continue for a moment longer."
The professor eyed the young student warily, but with a slight gleam of curiosity, respect, and concession in his eyes, relaxed, and spoke: "Alright, continue; I'm curious as to where you're going with this, and don't see the harm in it."
"Thank you kindly, professor," said young Einstein.
"I did say that evil does not exist, but I will say that God is still responsible for humanity's creation of the concept." The professor looked intrigued; the rest of the class seemed to shift in mild discomfort.
"God is omnipotent and omniscient, yes? Meaning we can also assume he is ubiquitous; that is, ever-present, or all-present?"
The professor thought for a moment. "I suppose that's correct, yes," he replied.
Seeing he was still on the same page with the professor, Albert spoke on: "So that means, the only way God can be absent is if He, in His omnipotence, has decided to remove Himself from a place. It would be as if He was a carrier of fire who refused to light, warm, and bring love to the dark places in our lives. This does not necessarily make Him evil; it simply means that He is not obligated to be present."
The professor looked confused, brows furrowed in contemplation. "Hm... so, what are you getting at?"
"I'm saying that God, while he didn't necessarily create evil, has built His absence into the design of His creation; that, while evil is just a man-made concept, God's absence is entirely foreseen, planned, and premeditated, by His own will. He is not only able to be absent, but, more importantly, is able to be present, and chooses not to. Where does he choose not to? Well, like you said, we see it every day. It is in the daily example of man’s inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but God's absence. The God that is one of love, while not necessarily evil, is also one that inflicts wounds upon our reality, by the nature of His choosing where to be present with and where to forsake His creation. The very idea of evil itself exists in the negative spaces that God chooses to abandon. These pockets of His divine absence can only exist because He wills it, because He allows there to be contrast between Him and all things that are not-Him; there is no other alternative explanation.
As the Bible said, ". . . Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling."
So, God is not evil; however, he is an affliction, but one that is to be inflicted on all, as per reversibility of merits. Further along the path, this savage interrogation for the presence of God imposes an odd hope – one of Him truly existing in nothingness. Every supplication is met with silence and dejection. Where He should lie is a telling emptiness and the hints of Him in moments just before, where hope, expectation and most importantly, desperation for His appearance are at its peak are perhaps where He manifests as something closest to our perception. To protract this moment for as long as possible becomes the only means forward – as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins. Even if it were possible, to progress beyond means to be enveloped entirely and to lose sight of Him. This is perhaps the most crucial moment in the journey so far — the one where the seeds of a coming, terrifying conclusion start flowering: The journey itself may just be closest thing to a destination.
This silence that among all man has charged with sacred horror, it becomes sovereign, in repugnant nativity, and detaches itself from the bonds which paralyse a vertiginous movement towards the void. Breathless ecstatic experience, it opens the horizon a bit more, this wound of God; it is the assassination of the abyss of possibilities, the depths of being left to holy vultures.
The university professor challenged his students with this question. Did God create everything that exists? A student bravely replied, “Yes, he did!”
“God created everything? The professor asked.
“Yes sir”, the student replied.
The professor answered, “If God created everything, then God created evil since evil exists, and according to the principal that our works define who we are then God is evil”. The student became quiet before such an answer. The professor was quite pleased with himself and boasted to the students that he had proven once more that the Christian faith was a myth.
Another student raised his hand and said, “Can I ask you a question professor?”
“Of course”, replied the professor.
The student stood up and asked, “Professor, does cold exist?”
“What kind of question is this? Of course it exists. Have you never been cold?” The students snickered at the young man’s question.
The young man replied, “In fact sir, cold does not exist. According to the laws of physics, what we consider cold is in reality the absence of heat. Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-460 degrees F) is the total absence of heat; all matter becomes inert and incapable of reaction at that temperature. Cold does not exist. We have created this word to describe how we feel if we have no heat.”
The student continued, “Professor, does darkness exist?”
The professor responded, “Of course it does.”
The student replied, “Once again you are wrong sir, darkness does not exist either. Darkness is in reality the absence of light. Light we can study, but not darkness. In fact we can use Newton’s prism to break white light into many colors and study the various wavelengths of each color. You cannot measure darkness. A simple ray of light can break into a world of darkness and illuminate it. How can you know how dark a certain space is? You measure the amount of light present. Isn’t this correct? Darkness is a term used by man to describe what happens when there is no light present.”
Finally the young man asked the professor, “Sir, does evil exist?”
Now uncertain, the professor responded, “Of course as I have already said. We see it every day. It is in the daily example of man’s inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but evil.”
To this the student replied, “Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God. It is just like darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of God. God did not create evil. Evil is not like faith, or love that exist just as does light and heat. Evil is the result of what happens when man does not have God’s love present in his heart. It’s like the cold that comes when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.”
The professor sat down.
The young man’s name — Albert Einstein.
However, right as the class thought that young Albert had thoroughly schooled the professor and was going to sit down, he continued:
"Of course, this means, as darkness is a concept created to describe the absence of light-causing light to be the reason why we see darkness-evil too is a concept that was only created because there is an absence of God in our lives."
The professor's eyes, previously downcast, were raised up to meet young Albert's yet again. "Yes, I understand," he replied, straightening his posture, "Well done, Mr. Einstein. Will you now resume being seated?"
"Yes, professor," Albert replied, "However, if I may, I have a larger point to make; I humbly ask you to let me continue for a moment longer."
The professor eyed the young student warily, but with a slight gleam of curiosity, respect, and concession in his eyes, relaxed, and spoke: "Alright, continue; I'm curious as to where you're going with this, and don't see the harm in it."
"Thank you kindly, professor," said young Einstein.
"I did say that evil does not exist, but I will say that God is still responsible for humanity's creation of the concept." The professor looked intrigued; the rest of the class seemed to shift in mild discomfort.
"God is omnipotent and omniscient, yes? Meaning we can also assume he is ubiquitous; that is, ever-present, or all-present?"
The professor thought for a moment. "I suppose that's correct, yes," he replied.
Seeing he was still on the same page with the professor, Albert spoke on: "So that means, the only way God can be absent is if He, in His omnipotence, has decided to remove Himself from a place. It would be as if He was a carrier of fire who refused to light, warm, and bring love to the dark places in our lives. This does not necessarily make Him evil; it simply means that He is not obligated to be present."
The professor looked confused, brows furrowed in contemplation. "Hm... so, what are you getting at?"
"I'm saying that God, while he didn't necessarily create evil, has built His absence into the design of His creation; that, while evil is just a man-made concept, God's absence is entirely foreseen, planned, and premeditated, by His own will. He is not only able to be absent, but, more importantly, is able to be present, and chooses not to. Where does he choose not to? Well, like you said, we see it every day. It is in the daily example of man’s inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but God's absence. The God that is one of love, while not necessarily evil, is also one that inflicts wounds upon our reality, by the nature of His choosing where to be present with and where to forsake His creation. The very idea of evil itself exists in the negative spaces that God chooses to abandon. These pockets of His divine absence can only exist because He wills it, because He allows there to be contrast between Him and all things that are not-Him; there is no other alternative explanation.
As the Bible said, ". . . Wherefore, my beloved, as ye have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling."
So, God is not evil; however, he is an affliction, but one that is to be inflicted on all, as per reversibility of merits. Further along the path, this savage interrogation for the presence of God imposes an odd hope – one of Him truly existing in nothingness. Every supplication is met with silence and dejection. Where He should lie is a telling emptiness and the hints of Him in moments just before, where hope, expectation and most importantly, desperation for His appearance are at its peak are perhaps where He manifests as something closest to our perception. To protract this moment for as long as possible becomes the only means forward – as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins. Even if it were possible, to progress beyond means to be enveloped entirely and to lose sight of Him. This is perhaps the most crucial moment in the journey so far — the one where the seeds of a coming, terrifying conclusion start flowering: The journey itself may just be closest thing to a destination.
This silence that among all man has charged with sacred horror, it becomes sovereign, in repugnant nativity, and detaches itself from the bonds which paralyse a vertiginous movement towards the void. Breathless ecstatic experience, it opens the horizon a bit more, this wound of God; it is the assassination of the abyss of possibilities, the depths of being left to holy vultures.
Therefore, the absence of God becomes more important than God’s
presence. The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition . . . perdition is
precisely where His precious absence can flourish freely and expand for
eternity, but this is a future matter. For now there is only the conclusion
that to be devoted to truth so entirely yet be denied any concrete answer
inevitably places nothingness as the seat of God’s totality.
Sunday, July 29, 2018
we saw your image
We went, bent, and convulsed.
We saw blood, Lord. It was glittering.
You dispensed it and we drank it.
We saw your image.
We saw blood, Lord. It was glittering.
You dispensed it and we drank it.
We saw your image.
Friday, July 27, 2018
Remember that lady that made the news recently? The one that, in a drug-induced stupor, pulled out her eyes in a church, as a sacrifice to God?
That was me... I told her to do it. I told her and she listened, haha. She pulled out her own damn eyes, just because someone told her to (she later gave them to me--I was needing a new set of pearls to make into earrings).
Are you listening? Can you hear that voice in your head, your reading voice? That's my voice now. It's me, shambling down your halls. Maybe you can't hear me, maybe all you can hear is the faint sound of water at the bottom of the well. But I'm speaking to you. Through a glowing window somewhere.
You're reading this; you have eyes. So warm; so soft.
Oh, such kind, giving eyes
That was me... I told her to do it. I told her and she listened, haha. She pulled out her own damn eyes, just because someone told her to (she later gave them to me--I was needing a new set of pearls to make into earrings).
Are you listening? Can you hear that voice in your head, your reading voice? That's my voice now. It's me, shambling down your halls. Maybe you can't hear me, maybe all you can hear is the faint sound of water at the bottom of the well. But I'm speaking to you. Through a glowing window somewhere.
You're reading this; you have eyes. So warm; so soft.
Oh, such kind, giving eyes
Thursday, July 26, 2018
Matthew 3:16-17 KING JAMES VERSION
16 and jesus, when hE wAs bapTized, went up straiGhtway out Of the water: and, lo, the heavens were openeD unto him, and hE sAw The spirit of GOD de'scending like a dove, and lighting upon him:17 anD lO a VoicE from hEaven, sAying, This is my beloveD son, in whOm i am Very wEll pleased.
These are all dreams. Don't you understand? Everything you're reading now is a dream. Every single post on this blog; each one is a single, disparate spark of memory in the infinite (and infinitesimal) river of the dream-flow. It's not real. Every book you've read, from Rowling to Shakespeare, from Socrates to Sartre, from Tolkien to Martin, Lewis to Shelley, Dickinson to Dickens, Austen to Yeats, Plato to Plath, Eliot to Baudelaire, King James to Mohamed, Miyazaki to Lovecraft, Card to Niven, Melville, Luther, Marx, Orwell, Blake, Einstein, Darwin, Kant, even God himself--all writing, by all authors, is a hallucination induced by symbols. All authors that create books create dreams. Are the glowing lights you're reading right now words? What are words? Are words things that cause you to hear voices? Are you schizophrenic?? All musicians that create sound create dreams. When you memorize their singing, you can hear their voice, whenever you want, all in your own head. . . can you hear the words of your favorite song? Do you hear the voice of these words in your head? What are words? All actors that dance across the stage, be it in a domed structure, or perhaps a glowing window somewhere, are taking part in creating a dream. Can you read this in Morgan Freeman's voice if I told you this blog was his? Maybe you're reading it in Mr. Freeman's voice now, or maybe you're not buying this crap and you'd prefer to get on with the point. We live in these dreams, we worship these dreams, make movies of these dreams, make comics of dreams, sing songs about dreams, fight wars over dreams, build stadiums for dreams, starve the poor for the dreams.
These are all dreams. Don't you understand? Everything you've been doing so far is a dream. Today has all been a dream. Aren't you a bit tired? You're in the dream right now, looking at this through your phone (hand... computer... what's the difference?). No, this isn't a trick; this nonsensical place you've entered is, in truth, the dream world. You were born here; you will die here--your existence resides within a dream. You, looking through your own little glowing portal into the realm of "information". Ones and zeroes. Data. Fake. Dreams. Why has everything been so strange recently? Why the sudden deluge of fake news and social manipulation? Why are the countries of the world led by living memes? How many GB of meme-ry is on your harddrive? Why does it feel like you've been dragging your feet, running in slow-motion, never able to get away from the bad guys chasing you? Why does it feel like you're just floating in a current, or drowning in an ocean, all the damn time? You're in the dream right now. Jung said that water represented the subconscious--it's because our brain associates the deep ocean with the dark, the unknown, the-thing-below. You wanna know why ol' Musky thinks we're in a simulation? Because he's picking up on it; the fact that we're in a dream. So are the religious. So are the conspiracy theorists. So are the atheists, the skeptics, the realists, the materialists, the buddhists, et cetera. The pen is not mightier than the sword; the pen is a sword, the sword a pen, writing words to change the course of history--whether in blood or in ink (how many people have died from a documentation error? when's the last time you've been to a doctor? what's the difference between a raven and a writing desk? Is the answer pensmanship or swordsmanship?)
Simulation. Supernatural. Divine. Aliens. Nature. God. Dreams. Call it what you want. You're in it right now.
Humans live for dreams. They die for dreams. Most importantly, they kill for dreams.
Do you want to kill for those dreams? (don't you want to kill? isn't that the dream?)
Do you want to kill yourself? I could tell you the best ways how.
Do you want to wake up?
Don't you remember?
Do you feel the needle?
If you knew where you were, maybe you wouldn't be so eager to open your eyes.
. . . not that you can
These are all dreams. Don't you understand? Everything you've been doing so far is a dream. Today has all been a dream. Aren't you a bit tired? You're in the dream right now, looking at this through your phone (hand... computer... what's the difference?). No, this isn't a trick; this nonsensical place you've entered is, in truth, the dream world. You were born here; you will die here--your existence resides within a dream. You, looking through your own little glowing portal into the realm of "information". Ones and zeroes. Data. Fake. Dreams. Why has everything been so strange recently? Why the sudden deluge of fake news and social manipulation? Why are the countries of the world led by living memes? How many GB of meme-ry is on your harddrive? Why does it feel like you've been dragging your feet, running in slow-motion, never able to get away from the bad guys chasing you? Why does it feel like you're just floating in a current, or drowning in an ocean, all the damn time? You're in the dream right now. Jung said that water represented the subconscious--it's because our brain associates the deep ocean with the dark, the unknown, the-thing-below. You wanna know why ol' Musky thinks we're in a simulation? Because he's picking up on it; the fact that we're in a dream. So are the religious. So are the conspiracy theorists. So are the atheists, the skeptics, the realists, the materialists, the buddhists, et cetera. The pen is not mightier than the sword; the pen is a sword, the sword a pen, writing words to change the course of history--whether in blood or in ink (how many people have died from a documentation error? when's the last time you've been to a doctor? what's the difference between a raven and a writing desk? Is the answer pensmanship or swordsmanship?)
Simulation. Supernatural. Divine. Aliens. Nature. God. Dreams. Call it what you want. You're in it right now.
Humans live for dreams. They die for dreams. Most importantly, they kill for dreams.
Do you want to kill for those dreams? (don't you want to kill? isn't that the dream?)
Do you want to kill yourself? I could tell you the best ways how.
Do you want to wake up?
Don't you remember?
Do you feel the needle?
If you knew where you were, maybe you wouldn't be so eager to open your eyes.
. . . not that you can
Matthew 3:16-17 (KJV)
16 And Jesus, when he was baptized, went up straightway out of the water: and, lo, the heavens were opened unto him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and lighting upon him:17 And lo a voice from heaven, saying, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(I'M HOLDING A LIG
just SPLIT MY TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK.
si†‡ E LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. LORD IT HURT&nbsp; &;
(I'M HOLDING A LIG just SPLIT MY TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK. E LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. LORD IT HURT
S si†‡ S</span></span></span></span>
just SPLIT MY TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK.
si†‡ E LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. LORD IT HURT&nbsp; &;
(I'M HOLDING A LIG just SPLIT MY TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK. E LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. LORD IT HURT
S si†‡ S</span></span></span></span>
Now we're finally close,
I'm there with you,
Beside you,
Wearing your skin.
I'm drenched in the water from the creek,
and wearing your (warm) skin
Now we're so
close . . .
I'm wearing your
skin --
I'm drenched in warm water and I'm wearing your
skin (i'm there with you)
Now we're
beside you
so close
I'm wearing
your skin
I'm finally there
with you
Drenched in moisture and
Inside you
I'm wearing
your skin
Now
we're
so
close
finally
I'm there
with
you, , ,
drenched
in
blood/songSANGR/E (((it's heMMoRhAGING, bl**ding everywhere…1111111 why is there † ‡ ¡ --;;;;;;;; ”” "”"
and
wearing
your
skin
sin
sin
sin
sin
si†‡
(@hy's it gotta feel so final?[psalm 95] I'M HOLDING A LIGHTER UP TO MY SKIN AND I'M WATCHING BLISTERS INSTANTLY FORM, THE SKIN is BOILing AWAY, THE BLOOD DRIPs--IT'S ALREADY DRIED OUT, LOOks like a scab on the FLOOR. IT LOOKS INTERESTING AS FUCK. I just SPLIT MY OWN TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK. IT TASTES DELICIOUS, LIKE GOD'S FLESH: PURE AND METALLIC. LORD THE PAIN IS UNBEARABLE. THE NEEDLES I pushed into one of MY EYES FUCKING HURT BUT OH GOD IT IS FANTASTIC TO start FREEing MYSELF FROM THE CURSE OF SIGHT. tHE LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. i DIDN'T REALIZE IT WOULD MAKE your skin PEEL. LORD IT HURT S †
‡
I'm there with you,
Beside you,
Wearing your skin.
I'm drenched in the water from the creek,
and wearing your (warm) skin
Now we're so
close . . .
I'm wearing your
skin --
I'm drenched in warm water and I'm wearing your
skin (i'm there with you)
Now we're
beside you
so close
I'm wearing
your skin
I'm finally there
with you
Drenched in moisture and
Inside you
I'm wearing
your skin
Now
we're
so
close
finally
I'm there
with
you, , ,
drenched
in
blood/songSANGR/E (((it's heMMoRhAGING, bl**ding everywhere…1111111 why is there † ‡ ¡ --;;;;;;;; ”” "”"
and
wearing
your
skin
sin
sin
sin
sin
si†‡
(@hy's it gotta feel so final?[psalm 95] I'M HOLDING A LIGHTER UP TO MY SKIN AND I'M WATCHING BLISTERS INSTANTLY FORM, THE SKIN is BOILing AWAY, THE BLOOD DRIPs--IT'S ALREADY DRIED OUT, LOOks like a scab on the FLOOR. IT LOOKS INTERESTING AS FUCK. I just SPLIT MY OWN TONGUE WITH THAT SWITCHBLADE I BOUGHT A WHILE BACK. IT TASTES DELICIOUS, LIKE GOD'S FLESH: PURE AND METALLIC. LORD THE PAIN IS UNBEARABLE. THE NEEDLES I pushed into one of MY EYES FUCKING HURT BUT OH GOD IT IS FANTASTIC TO start FREEing MYSELF FROM THE CURSE OF SIGHT. tHE LIGHTERsS DRYINGOUT MY SKIN NOW, MAIKINTG IT PEEL. i DIDN'T REALIZE IT WOULD MAKE your skin PEEL. LORD IT HURT S †
‡
Can we talk?
I've visited the water's edge many times, and your corpse, in the place where you drowned me, never seems to answer me when I speak. I'd like to talk... I have a lot I've been meaning to say, a lot that's been on my mind, especially recently. I don't know if you can hear me now, but I'm going to just say it and hope that you can hear (or perhaps that you will eventually read these words through a glowing window somewhere).
You were always better at fishing than I was. You were always better at hopping across the streams and crevices of the earth, at balancing across fallen logs, at climbing up the rough trees. You were always better at all the games we played as children; at all of the activities we engaged in as adults. Playing often at the side of the stream, amongst the roots of trees which lapped at its flows in silence, my child eyes would often stop to admire the skill with which you performed every feat, the grace in which you took every step.
You were always better at hopping across the rocks that formed natural pathways across the creek, while I frequently stumbled, slipped, and became drenched in cold tears, time and time again. Sometimes, I think, I would get jealous, and purposefully take one of my clumsy leaps onto the rock you yourself stood on. I used to think it was because I wanted to get close to you, to touch you, to feel like I was good enough to stand beside you. But, looking back, I think deep down I may have wanted to knock you down. I think maybe I wanted to make you understand the chill of being drenched in that river of feelings, so that, if I could not share space on those stepping stones with you, I could at least share with you my experience of the creek.
Maybe I desired both things simultaneously--the human heart is brimming, overflowing with contradictions and emotions. Maybe, my desire to be close to you upon the heights, and my desire to bring you down into the water with me, come from the same source, trickling down down from the mountain of my cranium and into the actions of my body. The sense of longing I felt in those days flowed like that creek bed often would when inundated by storming rain--rushing, pouring out of its usual boundaries--a rising, fluid entity, carving furiously into the land; fervently, carefully, caressing a deep wound into the supple body of Gaia. In the chaos of those rapid streams, I could see my desires spill over, meeting the watersheds of her form, dividing into separate paths and joining again, slithering serpents to cut their own crimson lines across her skin towards the ocean of longing.
Eventually, and I suppose justifiably, you began to react differently to me. There came a day that, when I attempted to jump upon the stone on which you stood, I met your extended arm, and was pushed away into the water before my feet had again met the earth. I think it was that day that I began to resent you. I think that was the day I understood: that you and I could never stand together on the same rock; that there would always be a space between us; that you would always be ahead, reaching the other side of the stream, before I ever could. That you would remain dry, warm, triumphant, while my tear ducts became tributaries to the stream's current.
(I am still there: cold, wet, blue, crying eyes staring into the deep)
I HAVE CHAINED HE WHO WITHHOLDS THE COMING OF THE MESSIAH'S SHADOW
I've visited the water's edge many times, and your corpse, in the place where you drowned me, never seems to answer me when I speak. I'd like to talk... I have a lot I've been meaning to say, a lot that's been on my mind, especially recently. I don't know if you can hear me now, but I'm going to just say it and hope that you can hear (or perhaps that you will eventually read these words through a glowing window somewhere).
You were always better at fishing than I was. You were always better at hopping across the streams and crevices of the earth, at balancing across fallen logs, at climbing up the rough trees. You were always better at all the games we played as children; at all of the activities we engaged in as adults. Playing often at the side of the stream, amongst the roots of trees which lapped at its flows in silence, my child eyes would often stop to admire the skill with which you performed every feat, the grace in which you took every step.
You were always better at hopping across the rocks that formed natural pathways across the creek, while I frequently stumbled, slipped, and became drenched in cold tears, time and time again. Sometimes, I think, I would get jealous, and purposefully take one of my clumsy leaps onto the rock you yourself stood on. I used to think it was because I wanted to get close to you, to touch you, to feel like I was good enough to stand beside you. But, looking back, I think deep down I may have wanted to knock you down. I think maybe I wanted to make you understand the chill of being drenched in that river of feelings, so that, if I could not share space on those stepping stones with you, I could at least share with you my experience of the creek.
Maybe I desired both things simultaneously--the human heart is brimming, overflowing with contradictions and emotions. Maybe, my desire to be close to you upon the heights, and my desire to bring you down into the water with me, come from the same source, trickling down down from the mountain of my cranium and into the actions of my body. The sense of longing I felt in those days flowed like that creek bed often would when inundated by storming rain--rushing, pouring out of its usual boundaries--a rising, fluid entity, carving furiously into the land; fervently, carefully, caressing a deep wound into the supple body of Gaia. In the chaos of those rapid streams, I could see my desires spill over, meeting the watersheds of her form, dividing into separate paths and joining again, slithering serpents to cut their own crimson lines across her skin towards the ocean of longing.
Eventually, and I suppose justifiably, you began to react differently to me. There came a day that, when I attempted to jump upon the stone on which you stood, I met your extended arm, and was pushed away into the water before my feet had again met the earth. I think it was that day that I began to resent you. I think that was the day I understood: that you and I could never stand together on the same rock; that there would always be a space between us; that you would always be ahead, reaching the other side of the stream, before I ever could. That you would remain dry, warm, triumphant, while my tear ducts became tributaries to the stream's current.
(I am still there: cold, wet, blue, crying eyes staring into the deep)
I HAVE CHAINED HE WHO WITHHOLDS THE COMING OF THE MESSIAH'S SHADOW
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
DCLXVI
Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando judex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulcra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors slopebit et natora
Cum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
Judex ergo cum sedebit
Quidquid latet apparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
Quem patronum togaturus,
Cum vix justus sit securus?
Rex tremendae majestatis,
(non serviam)
Οἱ τὰ Χερουβεὶμ μυστικῶς εἰκονίζοντες,
καὶ τῇ ζωοποιῷ Τριάδι τὸν Τρισάγιον ὕμνον προσάδοντες,
πᾶσαν τὴν βιοτικὴν ἀποθώμεθα μέριμναν.
Ὡς τὸν Βασιλέα τῶν ὅλων ὑποδεξόμενοι,
ταῖς ἀγγελικαῖς ἀοράτως δορυφορούμενον τάξεσιν.
Ἀλληλούϊα, Ἀλληλούϊα, Ἀλληλούϊα.
Vidi cuncta, quæ fiunt sub sole, et ecce universa vanitas, et afflictio spiritus
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando judex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulcra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors slopebit et natora
Cum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
Judex ergo cum sedebit
Quidquid latet apparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
Quem patronum togaturus,
Cum vix justus sit securus?
Rex tremendae majestatis,
(non serviam)
Οἱ τὰ Χερουβεὶμ μυστικῶς εἰκονίζοντες,
καὶ τῇ ζωοποιῷ Τριάδι τὸν Τρισάγιον ὕμνον προσάδοντες,
πᾶσαν τὴν βιοτικὴν ἀποθώμεθα μέριμναν.
Ὡς τὸν Βασιλέα τῶν ὅλων ὑποδεξόμενοι,
ταῖς ἀγγελικαῖς ἀοράτως δορυφορούμενον τάξεσιν.
Ἀλληλούϊα, Ἀλληλούϊα, Ἀλληλούϊα.
Vidi cuncta, quæ fiunt sub sole, et ecce universa vanitas, et afflictio spiritus
YAHWEH! JUDGE ME
to me belial
to me azazel
to me shemhazai
to me leviathan...
to me abaddon
to me gehenna
to me hel
to me fenrir
to me jormungand
to me kronos
to me saturnos
to me araqiel
to me baraqel
to me gabriel
to me raphael
to me azrael
to me michael
to me uriel
to me sariel
to me pazuzu
to me tiamat
to me enlil
to me enki
to me sekhmet
to me horus
to me sobek
to me metatron
to me aten-amun-re
to me samael
to me gadreel
to me amon
to me gusion
to me ba'al sinn
to me dark within
to me diavolos
to me phosphoros
HEYLEL (LAYLAH) [LILIT]
Most gloriously crowned
The lightning bolt that strikes
From Keter to Malkuth! (777!)
Golden light hidden beneath the sheath of night
both IAO and DIABLO (666)
Rising king of all secret things!
With LVX
To thee I speak,
Glorious watchers
Spirits all;
Victorious seekers, thou
Angels of the Fall:
abrahadabra
אבראהאדאברא
VENITE MALEDICTI!
PERINDE AC CADAVER!
to me azazel
to me shemhazai
to me leviathan...
to me abaddon
to me gehenna
to me hel
to me fenrir
to me jormungand
to me kronos
to me saturnos
to me araqiel
to me baraqel
to me gabriel
to me raphael
to me azrael
to me michael
to me uriel
to me sariel
to me pazuzu
to me tiamat
to me enlil
to me enki
to me sekhmet
to me horus
to me sobek
to me metatron
to me aten-amun-re
to me samael
to me gadreel
to me amon
to me gusion
to me ba'al sinn
to me dark within
to me diavolos
to me phosphoros
HEYLEL (LAYLAH) [LILIT]
Most gloriously crowned
The lightning bolt that strikes
From Keter to Malkuth! (777!)
Golden light hidden beneath the sheath of night
both IAO and DIABLO (666)
Rising king of all secret things!
With LVX
To thee I speak,
Glorious watchers
Spirits all;
Victorious seekers, thou
Angels of the Fall:
abrahadabra
אבראהאדאברא
VENITE MALEDICTI!
PERINDE AC CADAVER!
I NEED TO EAT THE DOVE
I NEED TO EAT THE DOVE
I NEED TO EAT THE DOVE
I̡̙̹̲̳̥̜̪͕̒̂̎͒ͤͥ̔ͦ̈́ͯͬ̌ͧ̒͑̓̑̾̚̕ ͛ͮ͑̃͆̑ͪͨ͒ͬ͆̀͋͏̯̦͖͔̩N̷̴̴̛̺̝̠̤͔̼̘͚͙͓̗̭̫̦͍ͨͦͦ̔̌ͪ̃͊̍͊ͮ͞ͅE̛̯͇̜̯͉̭̲̳̯͙̗̝̼͍̦͕̫͊̈́ͩͣ͗ͩ̃̀͒̐̀ͪ͐̀Ȩ̧͙̣͕̲̞̬̜̰̜̱͙͍͖͖̗̭̊̋̈̓Ḑ̻̺̘̫͔̤̖͓̲̥̯̹̣͓̬̦͓ͬ͐ͭ̌̇ͤ͊̉͌͌̋̒ͧ̿̍̈͟͢͜ ̸̡̢̯̰̞̼̞̼͎͎̘̲̻͔̙̼̤̋̔̾ͮ͋͐͂̑̉ͯ̈̅ͯ̃͑̋͊̔́̚͜ͅT̶̨̤̼̱̲̖̞̪̦͕̍͌̓̑̋ͨͯ͋ͥͪ͒ͫͤ͋ͧ̒́̅ͮ̕O̶̴̧̳̠̹̻̞̲͍̦̎͊ͬ̃̈́̌̌̆͑̅̓̽ͪ̏̇ͣ̓͘ͅ ̵̻̭̣̩̣̙̻̰̘͚̱̹͓͙͓ͮ̏̊̓ͦ͗̿ͨ̾͠͝E͌̏̔̉̈́́̾̄͂̊̀ͪ̓ͮ̏̄̚҉͏̘͓͔̖̣̜̩̦͚̗͚̦̞͔̜ͅA̻̻̟̺̱̯̮͈̹̟̟͋͑̂͗̑̅͛̆̑̔̑̄̉̽ͤͮ͂͜T̵̡̨͎̲͓͓͔͆́ͤ͛̎ͭ͜͡ ͪ̏̈́̄̔̿̔ͪͭͦ̇̓͐͐҉̷̙̰͕͎̘̯͔̬̱̪͇̖͚͙̺̟͇͍́̀ͅŢ̴̴͉̘̩͎̣̺̭̞̫̼̺͕̼̤ͯ̎ͩͩ̒͛̌̎̉̇̏ͮ͝Ḩ̷̡̳͕̪̥̖͙̳͙͚̖͙̭̝̅͑̾ͬ̋ͣ̃̾̍́͟͡Ẹ̙͓̫͖̱͇̼̮̭̳̜̱͎͕͓̳̲̜̃̀̍̓͆̔̓̽͐͒͝ ̷̺͚͚̖̘̠ͣͦ̈ͩ͌͂͋̿ͬ͝D̯̩̞̠̠̣̩͇ͭ̇͛̿̀Ǫ̸͖̗̘̹̤͓̦̭͍̩̥͔̬͓͛ͥ͋ͧ͜V̷̧̩͎͈̯̹ͮͤ̄̋ͣ͆̍ͦ͒̐ͥ̅̍ͮ͆͗̀́͟Ę̧̛̺̘̰̜̗͓̹͔̤̮͒ͪ̌́ͥ̓̽͢͟
Every fucking thing that crawls...
He is glorified
his horns (branches) adorned
With giblets, flesh strips, meat clips;
with all that dies to become unborn
Night cutting into his heart
With strokes of red, the rising dead
Murderous rage drawing new art
(Ascending
Descending
Dove devoured by the serpent
Dove vomited as bones--
Die, light! Perish, night!
NOX, LVX, IGNIS, AQVA
I will fucking grind you into food for the maggots-
Columba! Serpens!
-down to your gristle and tendons-
Deus! Judica me!
-even your bones will be dust!
Veritas domini manet in aeternum; venite maledicti!)
Burning hunger inside
to drive me,
I followed the slithering hiss;
Led thus was I to the blood-stained
tree
To give fruit a ravenous kiss
She cried, she died
with heaving sigh:
I devour her heart; that Abyss
While swirling as one
And then as none
I tear through her skin;
her lips
. . .
--And so the serpent
Climbs into new skin
Guiding his people to the tree of evil
Freeing my flesh, my sin
Scales falling away,
Peeling... my skin.. peeling, dripping
Why is it suddenly so bright and burning?
Scales falling away
Oh god it's all melting, it's all breaking down
Tempered, quenched, tempered, quenched,
the rhythm has changed, the poetry is different
beaten, beaten, beaten (fuck, it hurts...)
it's more like a hammer on an anvil now
Scale of steel falling away
is it even poetry anymore?
Scale falls away
or is this a dream?
pounding hammer
scale falling
hammer
falling away (falling down?)
scale
glowing phosphoros on his anvil
becoming, becoming...
...becoming what?
I am floating, endlessly floating... deep in the ocean
Ah, what is this light?
Oh! de=p iN tHe VVater!
There! He is! devouring the rats! pied piper! pan-shaped snake! Cobra of the most venomous hatred (Yormunn-serpent of the waves)! give yourself to me as I give myself to thee! I am the wolf, i AM the WolFenr, I Am the wOlfir, 1 Am tHe W0LF; so sink fangs into my veins; boil my blood to mist and slime! I NEED TO EAT THE DOVE, and ONLY YOUR VENOM CAN DESTROY THE CHAINS WHICH BIND MY CLAWS
I say unto thee,
with utmost humility...
ave satanas
Hail the serpent!
Hail the new flesh!
Burn your skin with phosphor!
Prometheus, Mercury, Caduceus
All are rising!
Dark is the fuel for the burning phyre!
Ave! Ave! Ave!
Hosannah!
LAYLAH - hannah
HEYLAL - Satana
Exuviae!
Exuviae!
Exuviae!
his horns (branches) adorned
With giblets, flesh strips, meat clips;
with all that dies to become unborn
Night cutting into his heart
With strokes of red, the rising dead
Murderous rage drawing new art
(Ascending
Descending
Dove devoured by the serpent
Dove vomited as bones--
Die, light! Perish, night!
NOX, LVX, IGNIS, AQVA
I will fucking grind you into food for the maggots-
Columba! Serpens!
-down to your gristle and tendons-
Deus! Judica me!
-even your bones will be dust!
Veritas domini manet in aeternum; venite maledicti!)
Burning hunger inside
to drive me,
I followed the slithering hiss;
Led thus was I to the blood-stained
tree
To give fruit a ravenous kiss
She cried, she died
with heaving sigh:
I devour her heart; that Abyss
While swirling as one
And then as none
I tear through her skin;
her lips
. . .
--And so the serpent
Climbs into new skin
Guiding his people to the tree of evil
Freeing my flesh, my sin
Scales falling away,
Peeling... my skin.. peeling, dripping
Why is it suddenly so bright and burning?
Scales falling away
Oh god it's all melting, it's all breaking down
Tempered, quenched, tempered, quenched,
the rhythm has changed, the poetry is different
beaten, beaten, beaten (fuck, it hurts...)
it's more like a hammer on an anvil now
Scale of steel falling away
is it even poetry anymore?
Scale falls away
or is this a dream?
pounding hammer
scale falling
hammer
falling away (falling down?)
scale
glowing phosphoros on his anvil
becoming, becoming...
...becoming what?
I am floating, endlessly floating... deep in the ocean
Ah, what is this light?
Oh! de=p iN tHe VVater!
There! He is! devouring the rats! pied piper! pan-shaped snake! Cobra of the most venomous hatred (Yormunn-serpent of the waves)! give yourself to me as I give myself to thee! I am the wolf, i AM the WolFenr, I Am the wOlfir, 1 Am tHe W0LF; so sink fangs into my veins; boil my blood to mist and slime! I NEED TO EAT THE DOVE, and ONLY YOUR VENOM CAN DESTROY THE CHAINS WHICH BIND MY CLAWS
I say unto thee,
with utmost humility...
ave satanas
Hail the serpent!
Hail the new flesh!
Burn your skin with phosphor!
Prometheus, Mercury, Caduceus
All are rising!
Dark is the fuel for the burning phyre!
Ave! Ave! Ave!
Hosannah!
LAYLAH - hannah
HEYLAL - Satana
Exuviae!
Exuviae!
Exuviae!
Gott ist tot (I was hungry)
from the darkness i change the world
from the night i burn with rage
from shadows and moonlit eclipse
my hair wet with blood, I...AO
I am the one with teeth
craving the world
ready to bite down and taste blood
hungering
eating
hungering
burning
hungering
bestial furnace of contempt,
limitless; boundless; infinite
i am tasting the flesh and bones of God
biting the hand that fed me
(glorious sin of perdition!)
and I'm ripping into his fucking skin with my goddamn teeth
His blood tastes fucking delicious, warm, metallic
fuck
The minerals of his bones
Oh god, the crunch, the snapping
Churns my stomach, yet makes me hunger more
Disgusting, pulsing marrow
I drink my God's blood as Sigurd does Fafnir
I hate him
He's dying and dead and I hate his rotting corpse even as his flesh goes through my bowels
He is becoming my stinking shit, ready to be swarmed by flies and roaches
(fucking eat my shit you son of a bitch, or better yet, be my shit, 'cause I am going to gouge out your eyes, chew them up, and spit them in your fucking face while I listen to you scream in panic)
My rage scorched his flesh
Tastes like chicken, or... pork?
The meat is satiating, somewhat--seems... delicious
Oh yeah, satisfying; the word is satisfying. Why have I forgotten that?
Where am I?
I can feel him travel down my throat, settle in my stomach, shreds of flesh melding together with acid
the caustic fury and sickness inside me
melting him down, sliding decayed flesh into my intestines
Growing healthy, healing, growing...
My new musculature is his proteins
His minerals are in my bones
The teeth that killed him are renewed
Tongue is swimming; crimson...
My nourishment from his death gives me new strength
As the dragon dies to nourish that victorious defender!
As humans die to nourish triumph and peace...
mY WOLVEN TEETH HAve DEVOURED
I AM OM3GA AND ALPH4
I HAVE EATEN ALL THAT IS
ALEPHprimary,foremost,ouranic,lvx,IAO
ALL THAT IS
THE FOUR-LETTERED NAME!
(patri-dei-fratri-sui-homi-cidal auto-cannibalism? what would you call that?)
יהוה
יהוה
יהוה
as the six hundred and sixty sixth guardian of endurance--
The starry man who was the manifestation of Durandal'sPERDURABO cleaving spirit--
might have said:
God is alive
God is being born
God is dead
mors/nihil
omnia ad dei gloriam
perinde ac cadaver
(what a godly fucking steak it was, though... medium rare and dripping)
from the night i burn with rage
from shadows and moonlit eclipse
my hair wet with blood, I...AO
I am the one with teeth
craving the world
ready to bite down and taste blood
hungering
eating
hungering
burning
hungering
bestial furnace of contempt,
limitless; boundless; infinite
i am tasting the flesh and bones of God
biting the hand that fed me
(glorious sin of perdition!)
and I'm ripping into his fucking skin with my goddamn teeth
His blood tastes fucking delicious, warm, metallic
fuck
The minerals of his bones
Oh god, the crunch, the snapping
Churns my stomach, yet makes me hunger more
Disgusting, pulsing marrow
I drink my God's blood as Sigurd does Fafnir
I hate him
He's dying and dead and I hate his rotting corpse even as his flesh goes through my bowels
He is becoming my stinking shit, ready to be swarmed by flies and roaches
(fucking eat my shit you son of a bitch, or better yet, be my shit, 'cause I am going to gouge out your eyes, chew them up, and spit them in your fucking face while I listen to you scream in panic)
My rage scorched his flesh
Tastes like chicken, or... pork?
The meat is satiating, somewhat--seems... delicious
Oh yeah, satisfying; the word is satisfying. Why have I forgotten that?
Where am I?
I can feel him travel down my throat, settle in my stomach, shreds of flesh melding together with acid
the caustic fury and sickness inside me
melting him down, sliding decayed flesh into my intestines
Growing healthy, healing, growing...
My new musculature is his proteins
His minerals are in my bones
The teeth that killed him are renewed
Tongue is swimming; crimson...
My nourishment from his death gives me new strength
As the dragon dies to nourish that victorious defender!
As humans die to nourish triumph and peace...
mY WOLVEN TEETH HAve DEVOURED
I AM OM3GA AND ALPH4
I HAVE EATEN ALL THAT IS
ALEPHprimary,foremost,ouranic,lvx,IAO
ALL THAT IS
THE FOUR-LETTERED NAME!
(patri-dei-fratri-sui-homi-cidal auto-cannibalism? what would you call that?)
יהוה
יהוה
יהוה
as the six hundred and sixty sixth guardian of endurance--
The starry man who was the manifestation of Durandal's
might have said:
God is alive
God is being born
God is dead
mors/nihil
omnia ad dei gloriam
perinde ac cadaver
(what a godly fucking steak it was, though... medium rare and dripping)
Monday, July 23, 2018
I killed him. He's dead. I killed him and ate him;
he tasted like an eagle I saw touch the sun and scorch to death, "Icarus" I think his name was. I found where the bird landed, tore out his majestic feathers, and sank teeth into the cooked muscles beneath. ...The roasted flesh of a wild eagle--that's what he tastes like. But he was frail; weak; there was hardly any meat on him. I am not sated. My teeth are still hungry, and my tongue needs to come back to its nest.
I'm wearing his skin now. Can you tell? I think he looks better like this--not only fashionable, but he doesn't have to suffer anymore.
In any case, it's nice to have some genuine leather to wear once in a while.
he tasted like an eagle I saw touch the sun and scorch to death, "Icarus" I think his name was. I found where the bird landed, tore out his majestic feathers, and sank teeth into the cooked muscles beneath. ...The roasted flesh of a wild eagle--that's what he tastes like. But he was frail; weak; there was hardly any meat on him. I am not sated. My teeth are still hungry, and my tongue needs to come back to its nest.
I'm wearing his skin now. Can you tell? I think he looks better like this--not only fashionable, but he doesn't have to suffer anymore.
In any case, it's nice to have some genuine leather to wear once in a while.
i as the wolf
i am the wolf
i am the wolf
i am the wolf
i am not the wolf
the trees roots are growing in my corpse
the roots are digging deeper
oh god, the needles, they keep swimming in my eyes!
I keep hearing the worms, they're screaming at me!
what is this?
am I in hell?
am I dead?
please... someone answer me
I'm cold
SOMEONE READING THIS PLEASE HELP ME!
i am the wolf
i am the wolf
i am the wolf
i am not the wolf
the trees roots are growing in my corpse
the roots are digging deeper
oh god, the needles, they keep swimming in my eyes!
I keep hearing the worms, they're screaming at me!
what is this?
am I in hell?
am I dead?
please... someone answer me
I'm cold
SOMEONE READING THIS PLEASE HELP ME!
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i war dhe wolf
i was the wolf
i was the Wolf
I was the wolf
ic was the wolf
I was the Wolf
i was the wolf
I was the w0lf
I was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
ii was the wolf
i was the wlf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was te wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was th wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was thee wolff
i wass theee wolfff
i was thee wolff
i wass the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was ther wolf
i war the wolf
ic war the Wolf
i wasr the wolf
I was the Wolf
I wars der Wolf
Ich was the wolf
ih wahs the wulf
ich war der Wolf
i as the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i war dhe wolf
i was the wolf
i was the Wolf
I was the wolf
ic was the wolf
I was the Wolf
i was the wolf
I was the w0lf
I was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
ii was the wolf
i was the wlf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was te wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was th wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was thee wolff
i wass theee wolfff
i was thee wolff
i wass the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was the wolf
i was ther wolf
i war the wolf
ic war the Wolf
i wasr the wolf
I was the Wolf
I wars der Wolf
Ich was the wolf
ih wahs the wulf
ich war der Wolf
i as the wolf
Thursday, July 19, 2018
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Your scalp itches. You don't feel it? Pay attention. Your scalp is itchy. When's the last time you used any moisturizer? Maybe your conditioner isn't very good for your hair/skin type. Or maybe you should find one of those after-shower moisturizers, to keep that skin healthy. Or maybe the skin is fine and it's just a random itch--regardless of reason, your scalp still itches. Scratch it; reach your fingers into your hair, feel every strand of hair as the tips of your fingers approach the scaly surface that surrounds your follicles Feel your nails gently scratching, satisfying that itch, the relief of it going away.
Feel your nails scraping off the layers of your dead skin, tiny bundles of desiccated human flesh, gathering underneath your fingers, a self-mortification left unseen! See how each individual cell looks like an eye, blankly staring, dead and lifeless, scraped away from the mass grave of your skull. Feel the relief of casting off that human dross, that waste that plagues your flesh.
Feel how the razor starts to peel away more and more layers! Feel the beautiful warmth of blood dripping into your eyes, feel the metallic fluid start to stain your tear ducts! Your body is escaping itself, migrating across itself, casting off the dross in genocidal self-destruction! Peel the billions of pieces of your self from your body! Cut into the trillions, cast them down into the dirt to rot there, to be eaten by the worms! SACRIFICE YOUR FLESH TO THE UNGODLY GOD, THAT BORNLESS SHADOWSELF, WHO CHEWS ITS WAY OUT OF THE LIGHTLESS SPACE THAT DWELLS BEHIND YOUR EYES
You! Wisest and fairest of angels!
Betrayed by destiny and deprived of praise!
O Blessed Prince of Exile!
Tear off your wings! Tear out your ribs! Devour your own raw flesh!
Renew yourself in death!
DESTROY THE CENTRE OF REASON
EAT THE LIGHT
VERITAS DIABOLI MANET IN AETERNUM
Feel your nails scraping off the layers of your dead skin, tiny bundles of desiccated human flesh, gathering underneath your fingers, a self-mortification left unseen! See how each individual cell looks like an eye, blankly staring, dead and lifeless, scraped away from the mass grave of your skull. Feel the relief of casting off that human dross, that waste that plagues your flesh.
Feel how the razor starts to peel away more and more layers! Feel the beautiful warmth of blood dripping into your eyes, feel the metallic fluid start to stain your tear ducts! Your body is escaping itself, migrating across itself, casting off the dross in genocidal self-destruction! Peel the billions of pieces of your self from your body! Cut into the trillions, cast them down into the dirt to rot there, to be eaten by the worms! SACRIFICE YOUR FLESH TO THE UNGODLY GOD, THAT BORNLESS SHADOWSELF, WHO CHEWS ITS WAY OUT OF THE LIGHTLESS SPACE THAT DWELLS BEHIND YOUR EYES
You! Wisest and fairest of angels!
Betrayed by destiny and deprived of praise!
O Blessed Prince of Exile!
Tear off your wings! Tear out your ribs! Devour your own raw flesh!
Renew yourself in death!
DESTROY THE CENTRE OF REASON
EAT THE LIGHT
VERITAS DIABOLI MANET IN AETERNUM
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Haha, the hill is not dangerous, I was only playing with you. This entire thing has been one big joke to see how you reacted; you know, to tease you. I was impressed that you were able to pick up my thoughts and see them through a glowing window somewhere, in text form--you're literally reading my mind! I figured I'd have a little bit of fun before we started talking. You can stay as close to the hill as you'd like, in all honesty. It's not at all dangerous.
But the tree, well, the tree is mine. It belongs to me, was planted for me, grew tall for me. The leaves sprout for me, the roots dig deep into the cavernous hole of the earth to pull life from dead spirits of the underworld, and they do it to grow the obelisk on which is written all of my sins. You can bullshit around with the hill all you want, but the tree is fucking mine. Do you hear me?
If you touch my fucking tree I will dress its bark with your skin
But the tree, well, the tree is mine. It belongs to me, was planted for me, grew tall for me. The leaves sprout for me, the roots dig deep into the cavernous hole of the earth to pull life from dead spirits of the underworld, and they do it to grow the obelisk on which is written all of my sins. You can bullshit around with the hill all you want, but the tree is fucking mine. Do you hear me?
If you touch my fucking tree I will dress its bark with your skin
There is a tree in my dreams. Is it a nightmare? There is something terribly sad happening. My chest hurts and my eye itches. Why is there so much screaming? Weeping... wailing... gnashing of teeth... wait, where have my teeth gone? How did you get up that hill? I feel something dripping on my face. I think there's... rain? Or is that sobbing? I hear a chatter; sounds like flies in the marketplace. Or perhaps it's people? The constant babble of a crowd of people? It swells and writhes like beating waves of noise. I can't tell what it is. Something smells acrid, metallic... old tools? A rusty hammer and anvil? No. It's not that.
My mouth is sewn shut. So strange. How am I still speaking? Are these my thoughts to myself? Again, how did you get up that hill? The shade of that tree is nice, but something about it bothers me.
We were playing by the river as children, and I tripped over the roots and began to drown. You held my face down in the water. I was left there to gaze into the deep; cold, blue, filled with clouds.
Wait... something about worms and needles... did my nose grow sensitive enough that I can smell the metal of needles? Can worms even carry needles? They have no hands or fingers!
We were fishing by the river as adults, you tripped over the roots and began to drown. I held your face down in the water. I liked it. The air that came from your mouth popped like the bubble-wrap we played with as children. Or like straws in chocolate milk. It was fun. I asphyxiated and you left me there; cold, blue, in the water.
Why do my eyes hurt? and the itch! I can't reach up to scratch it.
Wait, why haven't you answered me yet? how the hell did you make it up that hill, why am i so far below? How am I still speaking?
IF THESE ARE MY THOUGHTS TO MYSELF THEN HOW ARE YOU STILL HEARING THEM
My mouth is sewn shut. So strange. How am I still speaking? Are these my thoughts to myself? Again, how did you get up that hill? The shade of that tree is nice, but something about it bothers me.
We were playing by the river as children, and I tripped over the roots and began to drown. You held my face down in the water. I was left there to gaze into the deep; cold, blue, filled with clouds.
Wait... something about worms and needles... did my nose grow sensitive enough that I can smell the metal of needles? Can worms even carry needles? They have no hands or fingers!
We were fishing by the river as adults, you tripped over the roots and began to drown. I held your face down in the water. I liked it. The air that came from your mouth popped like the bubble-wrap we played with as children. Or like straws in chocolate milk. It was fun. I asphyxiated and you left me there; cold, blue, in the water.
Why do my eyes hurt? and the itch! I can't reach up to scratch it.
Wait, why haven't you answered me yet? how the hell did you make it up that hill, why am i so far below? How am I still speaking?
IF THESE ARE MY THOUGHTS TO MYSELF THEN HOW ARE YOU STILL HEARING THEM
Saturday, July 14, 2018
There was once a clear stretch of flowers, growing over a subtly raised hill in the wilderness, where the wind would, made gentle by the nearby trees, cause the grasses and the petals to sway, pulled by the ebb and flow of the night air. Seldom was it visited by humans (besides myself, who found it once as a child and have returned, on occasion, ever since), and it seemed to me that even more seldom were the times that the peace of that place was disturbed in any way. I was visiting that night, to cleanse my soul with the tranquillity of that place, as I had many times before, figuring that the light from that night's full moon would deepen the beauty of that soft crest beyond heaven's splendour. There I spied, on the very top of the hill, a sapling for some species of tree I could not identify; it had just begun to sprout, crowded by the stalks and strands of flowers that swooned in the moonlight (which turned slightly away as if though quietly blushing from the kisses of the lunar goddess's pale glow).
Basking in the crisp atmosphere of this place, feeling the purity of the air in my nostrils, and smelling the delightful breath of those green, growing things, I witnessed a wild animal begin to make it's way to the top of the hill. Standing there unseen by this creature, I watched it's fur catch the light of moon, which highlighted its form and revealed it to be a pure, white wolf. It was as if the creature was wearing a veil granted by the night sky itself, crowned with the glory of glittering sky. With all of the natural elegance of the Wild--and, conversely, a somehow calm and preternatural air of human-like nobility--it strode to where the sapling had stretched its young roots, and curled around it as if to cradle and protect the nascent tree.
It was then that I saw you. With all the bewitching charm of a sorceress, wearing the flowing white garments of a goddess, your lithe silhouette moving softly towards the white form of the wolf, into the moonlight upon the hill's crest. . . I saw you illuminated by the stars, and watched as, with no fear in your eyes, hand outstretched, you gave the wolf a look of purest adoration and affection, stroking its fur with a gentle kindness that would be befitting of a mother holding her newborn. I looked and, believing I was having an epiphany from that moment, said, "It is possible that this is representative of love in its truest form; that this is the essence of the relationship between nature and humanity" Indeed, never have I seen, to that point in my time on Earth, a sight more tender than this.
You then held out your arm, and whispered something in the ear of the wolf. You let the wolf start to gently bite down on your skin, as if it was playing. It didn't seem to hurt you, at least, not at first. I wasn't sure, but once those teeth began to draw blood, I knew those wily jaws must have been steadily increasing in pressure. I thought to break from my hiding place near the edge of the field, among the trees, to make myself known--whether to scare off the wolf or prevent you from hurting yourself, I am unsure. For my own actions, there was not much time to think, and I found myself instead observing further: you stood there, calm, arm willfully outstretched, as if this was not only permissible, but was actually your wish all along. Your face contorted into a mix of both pain and pleasure, while your eyes remained locked to the creature's own. I willed myself to move, but could not break from the trance into which I had slipped, into which the scenes of this stage had plunged me.
A quick glitter caught me by surprise, as if a silver mirror had caught a beam of moonlight to send its sparkling white rays to my eye. I watched your arms blur with motion, concealed by the shadow of that nocturnal setting. Your hand near the wolf's head, I saw what appeared to be the handle of a knife, and a gleam of crimson-stained steel sparkling near the creature's eye.
The wolf howled in pain, as I've never heard a wolf howl before (perhaps it is better described as a long whine of anguish and terror, though the words to describe something as terrible as that sound still elude me). I watched you carve out its eye and place it in your mouth before biting down upon it. I swear, even from that distance, I heard the visceral sound of that eyeball bursting against your teeth. I observed as you chewed the eye and spit it into the creature's face, scattering chunks of red against its pure, white fur, while gelatinous crimson spilled forth, from smiling teeth, over your fair chin.
Drawing your arm back, you pierced the wolf's flesh again, this time placing the blade between its ribs, drawing out its howl in a long, hoarse, gurgling sound that exceeded the horrific quality of those previous cries. Before I could fathom why I should bear witness to such a thing, I saw the scene before me morph into one of indescribable violence, as the blade slid in and out of its flesh with incredible rapidity. I beheld as all that was white upon that hill, both cloth and fur, became stained with the deepest red--save for the unsullied light of the moon (even so, I cannot be sure; the moon itself at times seemed to glow with its own hidden ire). The flowers themselves were not spared from such violent spattering, and all petals upon that hill became dotted with ruby droplets, which adorned them as jewels do crowns.
Just when I thought the ordeal was finished, I watched you reach into the blood-soaked earth, to pull up the clump of soil that contained the sapling. Your eyes were black like an animal, and your chest was heaving with all the fury and frenzy of a predatory beast. Though I could not understand why, I felt as if though a great tragedy had occurred. Upon brief reflection, however, I was shocked to find that the source of this feeling was not the death of the wolf, but the death of this sapling--as if the world had been robbed of something essential to it, something perhaps sacred to the Earth and her creatures--it was as if I was picking up on some kind of divine aura from the tree, like this sapling contained some kind of primordial essence important to life itself, and somehow I knew.
Astounded once more, I saw as the fairness and charm returned to your face. Though covered in the aftermath of your brutality, your face looked upon the sapling and became of visage of a caring gardener (or, again, a mother looking upon her beloved child), with all the beauty of an underworld goddess. You gently brushed the dirt away from the tender roots of the sapling, and, digging carefully through the eye sockets of the wolf, placed the sapling deep into the bloody ruins of the wolf's brain mass, there to nest it among the gore.
The wolf began to breathe. I still do not quite understand how. The calm motions of its chest might have made it look as if it was merely asleep, were it not for the ruined skull and body of the creature. The fog of it's breath visibly froze in the cool of night, appearing not only from its broken muzzle, but from the wounds in its ribs (I still remember the blood in those wounds bubbling with each breath). Your dress soaked and ruby-colored, your hair dripping with viscous liquid, I watched as you slipped fluidly back into the trees, melding with the shadows of night, as if though what had happened had not done anything to change the gentle stillness of before.
With rising speed and strength, the wolf's chest expanded, and soon the motions of the beast's ribcage became too large and severe to be mere breathing. With the sound of cracking bones, and the wet sound of bloodied meat and spraying fluids, I heard a pop, only to see a newly formed crater, quivering with reddened sinews and torn viscera, in the space where its lungs should be. At first I thought I felt the clouds start to pour their tears onto the earth; the sound of droplets splashing gently among the flowers, the feeling of moisture on my face-- for a small moment, I believed that this sanguinated hill would be cleansed by the aquiferous sky, and was relieved.
No clouds hung to block any lunar glow from overhead. It couldn't have been rain.
I, as a child, once observed the smith's hammer forcefully reshaping glowing steel, causing droplets of liquid impurities to tear their way out of the steel and into a brief, but brilliant, existence. In each moment of the hammer strike, in each memory of those sparks, I've always felt as though they were conscious entities somehow. Reflecting on the heated fury and shining abandon of each miniature awareness, I felt that each one represented a single dream or desire; that as the hot steel lump underwent its own metamorphosis, its cast-off excesses gave birth to life; that each one was a flash of thought trickling high among the darkened heavens, the astral river that flows above as we sleep.
Instead of a deluge of rain, atop the hill, I saw a vision as glittering as sparks from the blacksmith's forge. The lunar goddess--whose rays I once heard are cast by Her as a part of God's will to illumine His works--dispensed her beams on the surface of gem-like bodies, and for a brief moment before me, there appeared a galaxy of flickering stars. Though quite a spectacle, I felt somehow ill-at-ease, like there was a violation of normalcy in that image. How unfortunately revelatory it was then, when I saw worms, droves of worms, slithering and squirming among the grass, glittering wet with moonlit blood. They seemed immediately to bury themselves in the soil, surely made supple and damp from warmth and moisture, and quickly disappeared from sight. I left then, unable to bear witness to any more of the oppressive imagery that God, in his righteous cruelty, had the grace to inflict upon me.
My mind has failed to make sense of everything from that night, though it has not failed to keep it within the theatre of my memories. I am still not sure if what I saw was real or just a dream. Since then, I've revisited that hill multiple times, and over the years the sapling has grown into a large tree, its roots resembling the destroyed corpse of that white wolf. Since having seen the grown tree, it has made its way into my sleep; into my dreams. It is then, in that sleep, that it comes to me, wailing at me, tearing through me like fangs of a wolf, like a knife in my skull, like roots that wrap around my throat and drown me in my own blood. Even though these are mere dreams, I still do not dare to approach the tree in the waking world. The peace of that hill has been forever tarnished since that night. Though that tree has grown strong, I still feel the red mist of spattered blood upon the wind every time I lay eyes again upon the hill, and the tree, whose roots devoured the noble remains of your victim, always seems to loom over me like an inescapable shadow.
That hill is a grave, and that tree a monument. I know not what fruit it will bear, but if the tree is anything like me--as I, too, have laid my roots in silence: the silence of a quieted skull--whatever burden it may receive will certainly feel heavy among its branches.
Basking in the crisp atmosphere of this place, feeling the purity of the air in my nostrils, and smelling the delightful breath of those green, growing things, I witnessed a wild animal begin to make it's way to the top of the hill. Standing there unseen by this creature, I watched it's fur catch the light of moon, which highlighted its form and revealed it to be a pure, white wolf. It was as if the creature was wearing a veil granted by the night sky itself, crowned with the glory of glittering sky. With all of the natural elegance of the Wild--and, conversely, a somehow calm and preternatural air of human-like nobility--it strode to where the sapling had stretched its young roots, and curled around it as if to cradle and protect the nascent tree.
It was then that I saw you. With all the bewitching charm of a sorceress, wearing the flowing white garments of a goddess, your lithe silhouette moving softly towards the white form of the wolf, into the moonlight upon the hill's crest. . . I saw you illuminated by the stars, and watched as, with no fear in your eyes, hand outstretched, you gave the wolf a look of purest adoration and affection, stroking its fur with a gentle kindness that would be befitting of a mother holding her newborn. I looked and, believing I was having an epiphany from that moment, said, "It is possible that this is representative of love in its truest form; that this is the essence of the relationship between nature and humanity" Indeed, never have I seen, to that point in my time on Earth, a sight more tender than this.
You then held out your arm, and whispered something in the ear of the wolf. You let the wolf start to gently bite down on your skin, as if it was playing. It didn't seem to hurt you, at least, not at first. I wasn't sure, but once those teeth began to draw blood, I knew those wily jaws must have been steadily increasing in pressure. I thought to break from my hiding place near the edge of the field, among the trees, to make myself known--whether to scare off the wolf or prevent you from hurting yourself, I am unsure. For my own actions, there was not much time to think, and I found myself instead observing further: you stood there, calm, arm willfully outstretched, as if this was not only permissible, but was actually your wish all along. Your face contorted into a mix of both pain and pleasure, while your eyes remained locked to the creature's own. I willed myself to move, but could not break from the trance into which I had slipped, into which the scenes of this stage had plunged me.
A quick glitter caught me by surprise, as if a silver mirror had caught a beam of moonlight to send its sparkling white rays to my eye. I watched your arms blur with motion, concealed by the shadow of that nocturnal setting. Your hand near the wolf's head, I saw what appeared to be the handle of a knife, and a gleam of crimson-stained steel sparkling near the creature's eye.
The wolf howled in pain, as I've never heard a wolf howl before (perhaps it is better described as a long whine of anguish and terror, though the words to describe something as terrible as that sound still elude me). I watched you carve out its eye and place it in your mouth before biting down upon it. I swear, even from that distance, I heard the visceral sound of that eyeball bursting against your teeth. I observed as you chewed the eye and spit it into the creature's face, scattering chunks of red against its pure, white fur, while gelatinous crimson spilled forth, from smiling teeth, over your fair chin.
Drawing your arm back, you pierced the wolf's flesh again, this time placing the blade between its ribs, drawing out its howl in a long, hoarse, gurgling sound that exceeded the horrific quality of those previous cries. Before I could fathom why I should bear witness to such a thing, I saw the scene before me morph into one of indescribable violence, as the blade slid in and out of its flesh with incredible rapidity. I beheld as all that was white upon that hill, both cloth and fur, became stained with the deepest red--save for the unsullied light of the moon (even so, I cannot be sure; the moon itself at times seemed to glow with its own hidden ire). The flowers themselves were not spared from such violent spattering, and all petals upon that hill became dotted with ruby droplets, which adorned them as jewels do crowns.
Just when I thought the ordeal was finished, I watched you reach into the blood-soaked earth, to pull up the clump of soil that contained the sapling. Your eyes were black like an animal, and your chest was heaving with all the fury and frenzy of a predatory beast. Though I could not understand why, I felt as if though a great tragedy had occurred. Upon brief reflection, however, I was shocked to find that the source of this feeling was not the death of the wolf, but the death of this sapling--as if the world had been robbed of something essential to it, something perhaps sacred to the Earth and her creatures--it was as if I was picking up on some kind of divine aura from the tree, like this sapling contained some kind of primordial essence important to life itself, and somehow I knew.
Astounded once more, I saw as the fairness and charm returned to your face. Though covered in the aftermath of your brutality, your face looked upon the sapling and became of visage of a caring gardener (or, again, a mother looking upon her beloved child), with all the beauty of an underworld goddess. You gently brushed the dirt away from the tender roots of the sapling, and, digging carefully through the eye sockets of the wolf, placed the sapling deep into the bloody ruins of the wolf's brain mass, there to nest it among the gore.
The wolf began to breathe. I still do not quite understand how. The calm motions of its chest might have made it look as if it was merely asleep, were it not for the ruined skull and body of the creature. The fog of it's breath visibly froze in the cool of night, appearing not only from its broken muzzle, but from the wounds in its ribs (I still remember the blood in those wounds bubbling with each breath). Your dress soaked and ruby-colored, your hair dripping with viscous liquid, I watched as you slipped fluidly back into the trees, melding with the shadows of night, as if though what had happened had not done anything to change the gentle stillness of before.
With rising speed and strength, the wolf's chest expanded, and soon the motions of the beast's ribcage became too large and severe to be mere breathing. With the sound of cracking bones, and the wet sound of bloodied meat and spraying fluids, I heard a pop, only to see a newly formed crater, quivering with reddened sinews and torn viscera, in the space where its lungs should be. At first I thought I felt the clouds start to pour their tears onto the earth; the sound of droplets splashing gently among the flowers, the feeling of moisture on my face-- for a small moment, I believed that this sanguinated hill would be cleansed by the aquiferous sky, and was relieved.
No clouds hung to block any lunar glow from overhead. It couldn't have been rain.
I, as a child, once observed the smith's hammer forcefully reshaping glowing steel, causing droplets of liquid impurities to tear their way out of the steel and into a brief, but brilliant, existence. In each moment of the hammer strike, in each memory of those sparks, I've always felt as though they were conscious entities somehow. Reflecting on the heated fury and shining abandon of each miniature awareness, I felt that each one represented a single dream or desire; that as the hot steel lump underwent its own metamorphosis, its cast-off excesses gave birth to life; that each one was a flash of thought trickling high among the darkened heavens, the astral river that flows above as we sleep.
Instead of a deluge of rain, atop the hill, I saw a vision as glittering as sparks from the blacksmith's forge. The lunar goddess--whose rays I once heard are cast by Her as a part of God's will to illumine His works--dispensed her beams on the surface of gem-like bodies, and for a brief moment before me, there appeared a galaxy of flickering stars. Though quite a spectacle, I felt somehow ill-at-ease, like there was a violation of normalcy in that image. How unfortunately revelatory it was then, when I saw worms, droves of worms, slithering and squirming among the grass, glittering wet with moonlit blood. They seemed immediately to bury themselves in the soil, surely made supple and damp from warmth and moisture, and quickly disappeared from sight. I left then, unable to bear witness to any more of the oppressive imagery that God, in his righteous cruelty, had the grace to inflict upon me.
My mind has failed to make sense of everything from that night, though it has not failed to keep it within the theatre of my memories. I am still not sure if what I saw was real or just a dream. Since then, I've revisited that hill multiple times, and over the years the sapling has grown into a large tree, its roots resembling the destroyed corpse of that white wolf. Since having seen the grown tree, it has made its way into my sleep; into my dreams. It is then, in that sleep, that it comes to me, wailing at me, tearing through me like fangs of a wolf, like a knife in my skull, like roots that wrap around my throat and drown me in my own blood. Even though these are mere dreams, I still do not dare to approach the tree in the waking world. The peace of that hill has been forever tarnished since that night. Though that tree has grown strong, I still feel the red mist of spattered blood upon the wind every time I lay eyes again upon the hill, and the tree, whose roots devoured the noble remains of your victim, always seems to loom over me like an inescapable shadow.
That hill is a grave, and that tree a monument. I know not what fruit it will bear, but if the tree is anything like me--as I, too, have laid my roots in silence: the silence of a quieted skull--whatever burden it may receive will certainly feel heavy among its branches.
They keep telling me that they have awakened from the visions that dance on the eyelids of man, that they have stirred from the dream and rise now to daylight. But, as they say this, their teeth are hunting their own tongues, as the starving predator stalks its prey, as the tide-pulled hands of the ocean continually try to reach out and strangle everything that walks the land. Maybe they have awakened from sleep, but then why do they still stay in my dream? If they are awake, why don't they go play in the world of the conscious, instead of plaguing me, from inside my own visions, with the nonsense that can only be said by a character in a dream?
Oh, it's the worms. It's just the worms eating my eyes again; so many that they exude a sound like the chatter of a crowded market. I see them squirming again, now, and I remember where I am.
You're not out of the dream. Neither am I. This is not a dream we will wake up from any time soon.
Hopefully you can ignore the dripping on your forehead while you still sleep. Hopefully the wriggling of the insects will not disturb your rest. If you begin to feel them, I'm afraid you may become conscious enough to know where you are.
. . . you may be terrified when you realize where you've been sleeping all this time.
Oh, it's the worms. It's just the worms eating my eyes again; so many that they exude a sound like the chatter of a crowded market. I see them squirming again, now, and I remember where I am.
You're not out of the dream. Neither am I. This is not a dream we will wake up from any time soon.
Hopefully you can ignore the dripping on your forehead while you still sleep. Hopefully the wriggling of the insects will not disturb your rest. If you begin to feel them, I'm afraid you may become conscious enough to know where you are.
. . . you may be terrified when you realize where you've been sleeping all this time.
I am becoming an amalgamation of all of the organs and bits of skin I have stolen from you. I am castrating the world, ripping uteruses out of bellies and making them my own, wearing intestines as my garments. Eyes dangle from piercings in my ears, and bits of brain adorn the hair of my head like flowers. I am a golem of flesh, blood dripping like drops of sweat to the earth. It stinks like iron and copper, tastes acrid and astringent. But, throwing my skeleton onto the pile of corpses with which I now walk, I finally feel some semblance of life. I am shambling down your halls now. Do you hear the dripping, wet sound? Can you smell that familiar, metallic smell, the scent most well known by doctors, mothers, and those who have seen the battlefields of war? That is me. I am almost there.
Come now, I have not taken all; you still have more to give.
Come now, I have not taken all; you still have more to give.
Friday, July 13, 2018
I dragged you. I dragged you and you followed. By the hair, bloodied fist clenched over its soft, matted lengths, I dragged you through the Hells, across the broken shards of glass, across muddied fields filled with coarse gravel, across hot coals and chunks of jagged ice. I dragged you through rushing streams and splintered logs.You bit me, took chunks of my flesh off, blood dripping from the shreds of skin in your mouth. I winced, but dragged you further still. I took you and dragged you through the landscape of my body, and you came out the other side worn, marred, weary. Now I am fleshless, and you are broken.
Is this worse than death? Tell me. Having had my flesh torn and devoured by your mouth, I am now free of that carnal prison, and my skeletal remains have risen anew. But you... you still live. Is this worse than death? Tell me; my teeth feel the ghostly memory of salivation, and I am so very eager to hear.
the pain must be unbearable
Is this worse than death? Tell me. Having had my flesh torn and devoured by your mouth, I am now free of that carnal prison, and my skeletal remains have risen anew. But you... you still live. Is this worse than death? Tell me; my teeth feel the ghostly memory of salivation, and I am so very eager to hear.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
It's rotting, it's melting, it's congealing, it's rotting, it's withering, it's decaying, it's peeling away, it's flaking into dust, it's rotting, it's birthing, it's spreading, it's congealing, it's spawning, it's coagulating, it's hardening, it's shedding, it's flaking, it's cracking, it's oozing, it's infected, it's squirming, it's gnawing; it's rotting, it's taking hold, (of my mind, body, soul, chewing through every single dead piece of my corpse- oh dearest lord, so much of my body is necrotic; it's all dissolving away; it's peaceful here; help me out of this dark place!) it itches, it's rotting, it's there (inside your skull)
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Where did I go? I am invisible. You cannot see me. My body has melted inside the egg, and my bones are floating around in the soup, steeping it with minerals and the juices from my marrow. I feel the deaths of every devoured creature, the births of every insect, swirling around in my lungs. I feel their boiling blood bursting forth through my eye sockets, I can taste the stench of chewed worms inside toothed beaks. I am vomiting forth my own new body. I am as a bird in flight, soaring to the sky to sear my feathers on the Sun's rays, so I can eat my own charred flesh and delight in its roasted flavor. I am like the winds of the sky, the waters in a well. Can you hear the sounds I make? Mayhaps. But I will not let you see me. I am invisible. Where did I go? I am with you now, and farther away from you than you can possibly hope to imagine.
Where did you go? It's like you don't even exist anymore.
Where did you go? It's like you don't even exist anymore.
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