I wish I could write, but the obscenity of that deed forbids me to do so. My inexperience, weakened by my distaste for condolences, puts me in a desperate situation. If I could account for an experience so grave and tremulous for the very nerves in my fingers, then I would do so. However, it is just simply not in man’s nature to deviate from his conscience and accept the acts he has committed. For I fear that as much as an ounce of reference will give away my blackness of soul, and be an immediate damnation.
As I write this, I must keep in mind that as much as a deviation in tone of words would put me in direct murder with the law. No matter how difficult for me to write this letter, (for in some pretence I do truly believe in an escape) I must unravel the events which led me to such a state that I cannot even fathom the value of life. Must I wake up in another world to entail these events, then I would not do so. I finish this life here and in this world only, based on the belief that no other world with at least some sort of scrupulous morals, would accept me.
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It was not one, not two, or three either, but a repulsive amount of fatalities that pushed me so far beyond the bounds of morality that it was made impossible to find my way back. I wished to never look at a human body again. But I know I will do so anyway. The art seduces me, and I am much too old and feeble to make any signs of opposition.
I do not know if I will ever reach that summit of confession where power no longer falls from those above me and reduces me to a degenerate, but the regular practice of these entries is almost making me feel obliged into doing so. You can never tell too much about life without the thing that drags it. And the thing that drags it- it is unspeakable.
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It would come to me in flashes. In some kafkaesque trance of black and red, urging my step in sleep and strangling a cold breath in my throat. I had something akin to insomnia as the doctors would call it, but really my issue was that I was never awake. I lived only in flashes, and dreamt only in the horrors of my reality. I was shamefully too scared to sleep, but even more so to wake. I had only myself to blame, but to admit so grave a blame, I would not be able to bear it.
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It is of utmost importance that I say this carefully. The lucidity I descend into when night falls is only to win me in the deepest consequence.
As far as my memory allows me, I go down the tranquil streets of ill insubordination, men of whom have my lowest regard, and where I fuel a disreputable measure of detestment towards those of whom worship God. Witnessing the enactment of prayer as though it will stop their condemnation of present life, as though a man speaking the heresy of the bible could bring you absolution.
Forgive me, I realise I speak in equivocations. I am not usually so indirect, but such barbarities of exposed glands and larynxes in where my incisors ripped air out of and divided life spans as though I had some celestial power, can hopefully justify my secrecy.
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I am consciously dead. My organs still function; though jittering, and staggedly with my lengthening age. Nethertheless, blood runs freely through my veins and arteries and capillaries and all the like. While my blood runs freely, well, thoughts that scatter my mind as I see the light sinking between the breaks of my curtains once I realise another day has passed, well, perhaps blood runs a bit too freely. And I hold my breath as I write this for I fear the contents of my stomach would make its way to my revelling paled lips and be of an unnatural heat, soaring against the freezing precipitate of my skin.
Perhaps I am already dead. Unlike earlier, in the freshness of the acts I had committed, this thought no longer offered me any plane of comfort. For while dead, why do I still suffer? Life is not life, if not to wander the streets of day and night and experience the triviality of it. And I experience no triviality of it.
Why, philosophy was never my forté. I just made observation of the cream, white, or whatever subdued flames of the precipitate of my conical flask and argued the facts of my hypothesis. Quite simply, I hoarded in all my attention on the facts of science as though to restrain any venturing into the ambiguous qualities of humanity. Rather foolishly, I do admit, I fell right into the pit of inquiry and now think and speak in such paradoxical and ambiguous nature that my old self would be horrified at what now constitutes the pinnacle of my success. As though consequential to some Faustian pact, I live on borrowed time. Yes, I was successful in my methods, but the consequence is grand, and oftentimes feels grander than the success itself. And now I fear my resignation in hell. But more so I fear my resignation in a world that never wished to have me.
I feel sick with sorrow. It is only blood that fills me now. No longer sprayed across my cheeks from a rupture in trachea but on my hands in my old and withering age where the veins and capillaries dilate in divine promiscuity.
Holy, holy, holy, oh truly, I beg of you. My hands were not this guiltily stained in my youth.
Please, for I do truly wish to live.
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