"A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife. "
I'm scared.
Every passing second bears witness to a crime of galactic proportions - I'm sleeping. I'm petrified that every living instant, every second, is slipping by me and I'm not living enough. I'm not feeling enough, I'm not alive enough. My senses are fogged; I'm trapped in the belly of my mind, and my mind is dying one wasted second at a time.
Just going through the motions. Every emotion comes to me from across an ocean of confused ideas and thoughts. Every thought is slightly muddled; I am impure. I want to be a shard of glass, but I am an inchoate cloud of smoke. So... dead. Where is happiness? Is happiness only evident through a rear-view mirror? Is life lived only in memories?
I want to be pure. I want to torture myself, burn myself, until I can feel, until I can think, until I can touch, until I am raw from the living, until every second pulses like the frenzied heart of a dying animal. Tired of all this extraneous fat and blubber. Make me pure. Pure intellect. Pure.
I'm scared.
Every passing second bears witness to a crime of galactic proportions - I'm sleeping. I'm petrified that every living instant, every second, is slipping by me and I'm not living enough. I'm not feeling enough, I'm not alive enough. My senses are fogged; I'm trapped in the belly of my mind, and my mind is dying one wasted second at a time.
Just going through the motions. Every emotion comes to me from across an ocean of confused ideas and thoughts. Every thought is slightly muddled; I am impure. I want to be a shard of glass, but I am an inchoate cloud of smoke. So... dead. Where is happiness? Is happiness only evident through a rear-view mirror? Is life lived only in memories?
I want to be pure. I want to torture myself, burn myself, until I can feel, until I can think, until I can touch, until I am raw from the living, until every second pulses like the frenzied heart of a dying animal. Tired of all this extraneous fat and blubber. Make me pure. Pure intellect. Pure.
2 comments:
The fear of a lack of purposeful motion, does it make you delirious? Make you restless and insane till you indulge in pointless activity just for the sake of any kind of motion at all? Because that is what it does to me.
The lack of a point makes me want to either sleep or drown myself in frenzied activity.
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