In vacuous ignorance and empty boredom I write of things that do not seem real except in the capricious self-centered hole of my soul. That even rhymes.
Of photographs and memories held tight in a closed fist, ready to punch any thought that dares defy the hallowed notion of past time. K is my father and M is a Goddess; what then remains of I? If there is any concept like that in the first place. After all, my father is also the idol of God. If God is the only reality there is, after who we are all named and soldered, then why do we float unanchored and broken up? Why can we not be bound as spokes to the hub and balloons to the thread? Why must we fly in vertigo and fear?
I cannot pretend to like this life any longer. It’s too much effort. Red is boring and I hate roller coaster rides. I have seen too many sunsets and cannot gape in wonder at the moon or the twilight or earthquakes or sandstorms. Flowers wither and fruits rot and after a while, even hunger is consumptive. I do not want to be eaten up by myself. It is all a gaping mistake and an accident of probability and I do not like it.