A weariness has come upon me, a terrible disgust and rage, frustration with the endless issues of all you human rats in your cages, the dawning of an understanding of the true abomination you’re all acting out on the hollow stage of this abandoned and apocalyptic age.
Your glib pretensions at meaning, ignored or ignorant feeling, clouded logic in place of thinking, and uncomprehending blinking eyes: what once I thought I had compassion for I now simply despise. See you all have all these problems, and they’re all oh so dramatic, and when accused you reach for them as an excuse like some sort of addict. Your self-inflicted misery doesn’t have to be, or maybe it does because what can you do when the problem for which you have no solution is you?
Yeah, you and the world, it’s all a big mess, you humans all lie to each other so much the truth only comes out when you’re tortured enough to confess, and when it does the rest of you shrug, go back to your ways, zoning out or carrying on at night and pissing away your days, and maybe you realize that a little part of you dies every time you tell another of your lies to impress, deep down you’re all so terrified that you’ll draw that infinite terrible eye that knows you’re a bug (and you will, because you’re pissing on its favorite Persian rug.)
So what does it matter, what does it mean, this great big weird whirling world-machine? All this suffering, violence, bad faith and death, this uncaring cosmos that cursed itself with living breath? Fuck God’s forgiveness, that evil old swine should beg for mine: he’s the sadomasochist who uses pain to carve our minds, like a patient artisan shoving sharpened chisels into pine. You see, he could have chosen not to be, but he didn’t so we exist and thus we must persist, so yeah I think it’s time to pay the two-faced bastard back in kind.
So I stalk through the streets, hate broadcasting from my soul in snapping lightning sheets, and inside our mind I burn down every building that I find, or if inflammable reduce it to cluster-bombed sniper-pocked rubble, and the people who pass within this ragnarok bubble I send off starving, scared and diseased, their children orphaned, crippled or deceased. Illusions gone and dreams brought down, beaten into blood-soaked mud they thought was solid ground, face to face with what they always were: just dirt, unlucky enough to have have learned how to hurt.
But it’s a tiring, trudging path, to tread it takes its toll, and so weariness wins over the rage and I sit my ass down and smoke a bowl. As I sink down into my thoughts I glimpse a gate to hell gaping wider in the bottom of my soul. I hesitate, but because it feels wrong it’s not for very long, then hop over the edge and let the wyrm swallow me whole.
Hell starts in an atom: awareness walled into a shell so small and dark and tight it cannot see but a single photon of light, where to see is the same as being hit and by pushing back and shouting one forgets forever one’s sole remembered bit. And yet the universal wave of knowledge of the All comes through, a taunting distant call and that awareness begins to grasp the true depth of its fall, for its beloved, home, and self is now so far away that climbing back up just a single shelf will take several of Brahma’s days. What makes it worse is, being there? It’s really your own fault, a deep betrayal of yourSelf you carried out for sport, and when you ask yourSelf for an appeal, you’re summarily reconvicted in your own laughing kangaroo court. And all the other pieces of you that are out there (and by God is there a lot), they’re all just as guilty, every bit as clueless, and ultimately too they’re in on the plot. Atoms cannot hit themselves, so when they whack each other, they really give it all they’ve got.
For the most part in this world, atoms stay aloof and alone, for eons drifting through the empty darkness of their tiny light cones, but some few are lured by that all-pervading siren song into a denser configuration, which given an atom’s discussed dispensations must for them be very much like a war: I speak of course of the million degree orb of fire that rages in a stellar core. In the midst of all this shoving and confusion, some few are crushed so close together that their natural inimical hatred is defused, and to their surprise two become one, and it is here perhaps that the awareness in the atom gets its first glimpse of how it’s done: an eternity of empty longing and senseless torment, followed by a moment of reunion, a tiny tantalizing taste, then it’s ‘no more time to waste!’ for let us not forget this new element is still embedded in the most total of wars, and though two together are stronger than one still many are ripped apart, and none will escape from the star’s burning heart until it breaks from exhaustion and the star violently departs.
So time goes on, the cast out matter condenses, the next steps of reunion are found in mutual configurations, complexified forms are tried and taken, awareness is amplified and consciousness begins to awaken in the muck … and so too a finer appreciation of just how thoroughly it’s been fucked, thus when cells first learn to move and act it is not long before they go on the attack, at which point they learn to wage war in microscopic packs, which come together as bodies, which then invent sex, and it’s from there that things really start to suck because now it knows it has to find itself inside another and that’s often just a matter of luck.
But that’s just what forms the base, and in this as in every hierarchal case, on every level and in every place, evil shows its tortured face. From T Rex to Cain and the oceans of blood spilt between, the atoms’ raw hatred born of cosmic betrayal has vented its demented spleen. It is the force that holds the world back from being better than its been, and at the rising crest (or is it crisis) of this unlikely timeline we find the jumped-up monkey self-styled godmen ‘hu’-manity, a species dumb enough to think it’s clever and just as in the force’s grip as ever: driven by its demons and commanded by its crooks, fighting wars, turning profit, cooking books, ruled by tears and dirty looks, and hang on, what’s this? Hell is just here, and now? The world in which we inhabit?
Ahh, but of course: ‘Hell’ is another dimension, intersecting ours because it must, a necronomicon written in every speck of dust. That it exists may be necessary, but it’s not in any way just.
At the same time, it is an infinite universe, and while here and now we have our socialists, globalists, terrorists, capitalists, and secret midnight satanists, there’s those who say that when Zbigniew Brzinski jerks off on a dying 10 year old’s tongue a certain something rises steaming from the mixture of the child’s terror and his cum (which is karma by the way: this time around the child may be innocent but with those past lives, boy, he had it coming.) A demon, a devil, a reptilian ritual, a dark dimensional door, it’s an archetypal force that’s grounded in horror and the sick part is, if it did not exist the universe would be the poorer. It pervades the now and has been since the very first then, and it will and does exist until the very final when. So at least it appears to me, and proffers a proverbial pen.
“Now you’ve got it, my son, now you understand! You see the rampant injustice of God’s grand master plan! That cosmic bully who lets me exist just because I can. So come my son,” it said, holding forth a contract in its flickering hand, “Sign here, we’ll let you stay. Our arms are always open to qualified immigrants here in this humble land, and don’t you worry about the pay.”
I looked at the scroll, then into its red-rimmed eyes, and heard within its voice all the world’s cries, offering there naught but suffering, though through it a twisted kind of peace: to abandon the search for meaning and surrender on my knees, letting the pain burn finally through my finer human capacities. But in the devil’s expression I observed an appreciation of the absurd. “Before I sign anything, I’d like to have a word. You’re grinning but I don’t get the joke, what’s the fun at which you poke?”
“Some must lose families, others be in fear of their lives, some I aquire because they are desperate to do more than survive but you my dear boy! It’s a bargain price, in comparison like buying all of China for a single grain of rice.” With this it’s mocking laughter unfurled, “For here you are soul in hand ready to sign it over because you think you’ve been unfairly spurned by a girl!”
I may be a swine but I’ve a taste for pearls and before I knew it to spite myself I was laughing along, “That is so very like you, to be at once so totally right yet completely wrong.” All at once and for no reason but All I became aware of that universal scintillating song: before I knew I didn’t deserve it the All came flooding up through my spine and connected me through an infinite circular line that whisked my soul away from the malign and momentarily whipped it up into the divine.
But when the whirling stopped I saw to my dismay that even on this rarefied plane (where I absolutely was not authorized to stay) the devil remained, a tiny darting imp that flitted up to my ear and whispered, “It’s not that easy, not for you, you and I have yet far more to do. Regardless of what you try and choose the day is coming when you’ll join my crew: you’ve already shown that you’re weak, that you haven’t the strength to really speak nor seek your mind, and when you fall again and from a higher peak I’ll be waiting there anew and I won’t be as kind.”
“Nor will I be so blind, and yes you will wait,” I readily agreed, “And then again we shall debate but … was it weak to fall in love so fast and deep I fell all the way to you? The willingness to do that is what makes your own love for God true. Isn’t that the reason you do what you do?”
They say the devil loves it when you’re bored, even more to be ignored, but laughter and recognition cut through its substance like a sword. And so it left, yet the offer stays, and on my conscience its extension must weigh for every now is a new piece of clay and it matters not a bit what you did in the past, but only what you decide today. Whether you play St. Francis of Assisi or a wholly Catholic pederast, whether you plunge into the rocky waters and swim towards the sirens or tie yourself to the mast that mocking melody that God keeps ohming might drive you mad. Even Saruman the White went bad, and few had lives more richly adorned than that in which he’d been clad.
But still, even that old demon Vlad was redeemed, though it took a stake through his heart to wake him up once again from the dream.
The high are thrown down and the low lifted high, tossed on waves that span multiple lives as we are driven towards the unobtainable prize that sits like rainbow gold at the euphoric end and source of time. It’s why lovers love and poets ryhme, why souls and stars can shine, and it wouldn’t exist without original crime: that every moment, it deliberately drops itself away from its home in the sublime, to begin again its Sisyphean climb. But where or when or whoever you are, whatever you thought you knew, which direction that you head in is up or down to nothing but you.