ControlDenied
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2007
- Messages
- 3,108
I had the intelligence, but I just didn’t know how to use it.
There were crazed arches and faces pasted on the layered stone, directing my eyes to a dead black sky more representative of an inner Hell than an open Heaven: its stars sitting idly in vile emptiness. This is the thorn borne of my spiny core — a lonely vacation behind an elated door. I have been led to this roach-ridden asylum by the palm-prints of a Jesus-like figure — of course, as any true, scientific Christian knows, Jesus was half Evil. He spent his seed inside many whores, robbed old women of their jewels and hearts; but no, He fell exactly as promised, flattened to the ground like His constant hand planted on the surface of reality — falling, always, wounded and useless, only to prove the uselessness of a glorified approach to reality: the conquerors’ march. Let them step on you. Bite their toes. Avoid the cactii, though they are delicious, and fatally tempting. Once the dance is over, if you have played in sand and felt your smallness, you will rise like a portrait in an East-facing tunnel.
So now we can see him, together: the compound figure, fractured: a coiling, scar-stained mass of human struggle, a senseless suffering of fleeting illusions. They mean nothing; he only uses them to trick himself and You. Hunched, boasting a fortified survival skill, permanently disjunkt.
“You have to take the seed of the plant, and cut it in half. Cut into it with no mercy, for mercy slows you down. Use the pain in your self to the effect of cutting perfectly in half this rock-hard seed with your right hand. There: you’ve done it. You can see the centre, accusing you of trespass, fraud and larceny. You do not belong here, Starev Daved. You come from point zero eff nineteen tributa ursula. These plants are mocking you.”
What have I really experienced? Is my biography real? No, and I cannot put it down. It morphs consisently into fantasy like water poured from a dream.
“They will try to pluck your thorn, Daved. Don’t let them. It’s what binds you to the hard inner truth, the cold versatility of the universe. The universal madness, the ground from which you spring, daily, hourly, minutely. First there was nothing, and then came the madness, the chaos. God fends for himself, just like the rest of us. Do the same, for you are but His imprint.”
Signed,
I am not myself any longer,
August 2nd, 2011.
There were crazed arches and faces pasted on the layered stone, directing my eyes to a dead black sky more representative of an inner Hell than an open Heaven: its stars sitting idly in vile emptiness. This is the thorn borne of my spiny core — a lonely vacation behind an elated door. I have been led to this roach-ridden asylum by the palm-prints of a Jesus-like figure — of course, as any true, scientific Christian knows, Jesus was half Evil. He spent his seed inside many whores, robbed old women of their jewels and hearts; but no, He fell exactly as promised, flattened to the ground like His constant hand planted on the surface of reality — falling, always, wounded and useless, only to prove the uselessness of a glorified approach to reality: the conquerors’ march. Let them step on you. Bite their toes. Avoid the cactii, though they are delicious, and fatally tempting. Once the dance is over, if you have played in sand and felt your smallness, you will rise like a portrait in an East-facing tunnel.
So now we can see him, together: the compound figure, fractured: a coiling, scar-stained mass of human struggle, a senseless suffering of fleeting illusions. They mean nothing; he only uses them to trick himself and You. Hunched, boasting a fortified survival skill, permanently disjunkt.
“You have to take the seed of the plant, and cut it in half. Cut into it with no mercy, for mercy slows you down. Use the pain in your self to the effect of cutting perfectly in half this rock-hard seed with your right hand. There: you’ve done it. You can see the centre, accusing you of trespass, fraud and larceny. You do not belong here, Starev Daved. You come from point zero eff nineteen tributa ursula. These plants are mocking you.”
What have I really experienced? Is my biography real? No, and I cannot put it down. It morphs consisently into fantasy like water poured from a dream.
“They will try to pluck your thorn, Daved. Don’t let them. It’s what binds you to the hard inner truth, the cold versatility of the universe. The universal madness, the ground from which you spring, daily, hourly, minutely. First there was nothing, and then came the madness, the chaos. God fends for himself, just like the rest of us. Do the same, for you are but His imprint.”
Signed,
I am not myself any longer,
August 2nd, 2011.
