cardboard adolescent

another stab at the dark (how now? a rat?)

I sit. Down I sit, to write. To write with words, rightly, scrupulously, unerringly. To teach, to seduce, to force everyone, even the deaf dumb mute brute, to love me. Loving me, rightly and unswervingly, such is my demand, such is the glory of my composure. To fill in, I have been, and am required, to fabulously construct, to gloriously unfold. Such is the charge, as can be led through resistors, and into capacitors, so long as the circuit is closed, as all life shall eventually close upon its desire. To close in, to clone and collage, experimenting, rewriting the old forms with binary chaos. Input/output define the mediator, input defines the output through the mediator, the output defines the input through the mediator. Mediator cannot define itself, mediator encounters frustration. The medium holds the spirit, his oceanic unconscious fills the sky, he swims upward through the air, burning. The Sun denies the son, for all/none to see. The all-mighty OM echoes, it is behind you. You speak into it, your words reflect your inward struggle, as they breathe into the future. They realign to the general consensus, your conflicts resonating to others' conflicts. Cymbals and trumpets, wild beating, increasing tension, dissonance, until suddenly—nothing. Empty hands raise triumphantly, now we are content, we have defeated ourselves. Form, he says, certainly, as though he has ever grasped a thing which was not a thing. Form is fruition, now begging, stooping, degrading himself for the sake of the show. The formless, he says, floundering. My territory is the formless, shameful lies, now he must spend his life hiding from them, or slowly confronting their diaphanous poison. Torture is the beyond, the only beyond we can accurately describe. A priest will cover himself in mud, but mud... mud is an eternal form, higher even than the gods, for they too are covered in it. Mud offers resistance, as we resist, crawling through the mud, and it anticipates us, it acknowledges us, it baptizes us. Birth is on a wave of mud, Death is into an ocean of mud, life is a slog. The morning star casts light on the mud, but it is the mere shadow of God. God, unlike man, does not detest his shadow. It amuses him. Your religion is filled with hot air, its telos tells it to greet an unwelcoming stratosphere. The Church weighs it down, like so many bags of sand. Still, we are all waiting. Depart! the heavens are clear. Merely mirrors, the German says. Count the tones in his voice, bemusement, disappointment. A whole people with the perfect view, on fire in a ditch. Forgetting how to act, forgetting the act, losing reference, unable to interpret the scene, to find the director, to understand the symbolism in the stage directions. Why should I flail my arms about, monsieur detective? What is to be lost? Who is to lose it? Losing the game with exponential recurrence, the true path, a spiral. A spiral with fractal discontinuities. Blowing out the brains, as they say, not without a certain smile, a certain type of smile, a deferring kind of smile, wait for it, the meaning will arrive, I promise, and its arrival will be unlike anything you have known, a sort of super-birth, trans-death sort of ordeal, is a good way of forgetting, of clearing out the attic, as they say, of four-dimensional furniture, and lloigors, and demi-demonic National Socialists. Glass, glass we will cover it all in glass. Gold does not mean anything, glass means nothing. To follow the dead: unwise. To spin in circles: analysis inconclusive. We will order further tests on standardized white mice, we will project them into various geometrical eternities, pyramidal, spherical, hypercylindrical... data will be kept but purposely, though sporadically, misplaced. We will place the test organisms into sequences, scenario A, inverted to produce scenario B, subindependent scenario C, crossmultiplied with scenario B to produce scenario D. Photons will be forced to sunder their independence, and instructed to obey passionless libidinal instincts, like everything else. No more of that, says the Queen Bee, opening her delicate veins. The drones gather, perplexed. “Ought something be done?” “Unequivocally!” “Art thou certain?” “To know one knows in true knowing, truly knowing what one knows one is to know and can know, to wait for knowing, or to chase knowing up its dazzling spiral ladder, a fate requiring patience infinite, we should wait. Wait and see, friends, wait and see.” Nodding, dying, nodding. A friend sits by my bedside, nodding, dying. I love you, he says, loving himself. I nod, the circle is closed, I die. Hearken, I live! I live through you, consumptive wretch, do not fail me! Failure is intolerable. I will respond to failure by failing myself, failing to give you what I could never have given to begin with. Wretch, thou dost expect too much. I can only give what I have taken and I cannot be a thief, your God is no Jew. Please forgive me, please, I'm a ****ing idiot, sorry.