Complication. Evolution. Deconstruction.
You don't have to die a "complete" man. You just have to die.
Outside my window, golden brown leaves fall from their life into the abyss. A cold morning. I pull the covers off my body and shed my first few skin cells for the day. Half blind by the tendrils of sleep, I destroy my favourite Mozart disc as it cracks beneath my foot. A quiet but intense curse escapes my mouth, and I stumble into the shower. Gravity propelled liquid thunders down onto my body, and I let out a small grunt as my face-washer scrapes off any redundant pieces of me. I stop the shower and watch last pieces of my old self drains into the abyss.
Your fingerprints deceive you. You're the same shit as everyone else. There's more of where you come from. You are but a grain of sand in the stinking, fetid beach of humanity.
Minutes go by, my life slowly ending as we bundle into the family car. We sit in silence. As the car drags our dead weight along the road, I look out and all I see are things falling apart: Rotting pine letterboxes, rusted roofs, fractured pavements, the carcass of a red-blood-drained black cat, an old man painfully gripping his metal mock-skeleton. I have long since stopped feeling depressed by these images of entropy. It is the way of things. Matter, like man, is on the same futile struggle to become comfortable. It wants to return to the balanced state of an inert molecule, just as we yearn for a balance in our life. Death - all around me.
Your soul is racing for the inner peace it needs, but red fades to black, and the organic vehicle you reside in, returns to the mother earth, with it- your soul, forever lost.
I arrive at school, don my mask of life, and trudge through the thick air. I dance around the compost heap with the others, learning: filling my brain up useful, useless information. Underneath my feet lays a layer of dead skin, evidence of people who have travelled through these spaces before my time. Sometimes I forget I will not be the one of the last ones to decompose in this space. Death - all around me: past and the future.
The daily ritual of preparation for wealth accumulation draws to a close as the journey is made back to the day's point of origin. I consume dead flesh of animals and plants, inhale the ash of tobacco, gaze at the stars from my bedroom window, and retire to bed, shedding my last skin and hair cells for the day. I dream of reality: everything is falling apart, everything is fading, everything is slowly ceasing to exist as soon as it exists. But I try to convince myself that is not important. Death - all around me: past and the future, near and far.
All I really have is the thing that isn't constructed from matter: my soul. Whether I objectively own one or not is of little consequence, because when I believe I have a soul, a soul is made. And before this ink fades, before this paper soaks into the earth, I wish another soul could read these words, and feel the preciousness of life. I wish they could see that the only things worthy of pride, the only things worthy of love, are our souls. The rest is just dust.
You don't have to die a "complete" man. You just have to die.
- Written by me, early 2000.
You don't have to die a "complete" man. You just have to die.
Outside my window, golden brown leaves fall from their life into the abyss. A cold morning. I pull the covers off my body and shed my first few skin cells for the day. Half blind by the tendrils of sleep, I destroy my favourite Mozart disc as it cracks beneath my foot. A quiet but intense curse escapes my mouth, and I stumble into the shower. Gravity propelled liquid thunders down onto my body, and I let out a small grunt as my face-washer scrapes off any redundant pieces of me. I stop the shower and watch last pieces of my old self drains into the abyss.
Your fingerprints deceive you. You're the same shit as everyone else. There's more of where you come from. You are but a grain of sand in the stinking, fetid beach of humanity.
Minutes go by, my life slowly ending as we bundle into the family car. We sit in silence. As the car drags our dead weight along the road, I look out and all I see are things falling apart: Rotting pine letterboxes, rusted roofs, fractured pavements, the carcass of a red-blood-drained black cat, an old man painfully gripping his metal mock-skeleton. I have long since stopped feeling depressed by these images of entropy. It is the way of things. Matter, like man, is on the same futile struggle to become comfortable. It wants to return to the balanced state of an inert molecule, just as we yearn for a balance in our life. Death - all around me.
Your soul is racing for the inner peace it needs, but red fades to black, and the organic vehicle you reside in, returns to the mother earth, with it- your soul, forever lost.
I arrive at school, don my mask of life, and trudge through the thick air. I dance around the compost heap with the others, learning: filling my brain up useful, useless information. Underneath my feet lays a layer of dead skin, evidence of people who have travelled through these spaces before my time. Sometimes I forget I will not be the one of the last ones to decompose in this space. Death - all around me: past and the future.
The daily ritual of preparation for wealth accumulation draws to a close as the journey is made back to the day's point of origin. I consume dead flesh of animals and plants, inhale the ash of tobacco, gaze at the stars from my bedroom window, and retire to bed, shedding my last skin and hair cells for the day. I dream of reality: everything is falling apart, everything is fading, everything is slowly ceasing to exist as soon as it exists. But I try to convince myself that is not important. Death - all around me: past and the future, near and far.
All I really have is the thing that isn't constructed from matter: my soul. Whether I objectively own one or not is of little consequence, because when I believe I have a soul, a soul is made. And before this ink fades, before this paper soaks into the earth, I wish another soul could read these words, and feel the preciousness of life. I wish they could see that the only things worthy of pride, the only things worthy of love, are our souls. The rest is just dust.
You don't have to die a "complete" man. You just have to die.
- Written by me, early 2000.
