Monthly Archives: August 2013

Endtimes of dying…

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“The truth shall set you free…”

I hate cut flowers.

They remind me of life; beautiful and dead, already…

Oftentimes suffering becomes a choice, a moral and an ethical one for the times when lying and cheating against our very own selves becomes a burden harder to bear than truth itself and its consequences.
Life itself has never been anything else but suffering; from its always unrequested beginnings, to its always bitter end, with more or less failed, all along attempts to somewhat adjust the odds of this ever unfair farce. It seems as even what’s good of it has sunk to be nothing more than pathetic patches to never stop, but just hide this ugly continuum of misery rebranded as life.
No one seems to be willing to associate the countless instances of witnessing in a way or another the collateral horrors of a child’s birth, the screams, the blood, the tears, the sometimes unbearable tension of a moment closer to death than to life, with themselves; the cheap lack of our own birth’s memories seems to be comforting enough to not even bother about it anymore…
We just don’t want to see that it is only a matter of time, a sinister extension of a tragedy, until everyone arrives where nobody wanted, to the dust and ashes about which the raptured in orgasm parents have chosen not to think at the time.
Baskets of goodies, greeting cards and flowers for those parts of this ugly world where a filthy hut full of buzzing flies ready to lay their spawn on a meager placenta isn’t life’s “normal” treat, temporarily covers the place to be littered later with late flowers of sorrow…
The everyday sight of my beautiful wife and wonderful children torments me; the thought of any more suffering besides their frail existence drains all my attempts to sanity as I can’t dissociate myself from their finiteness…
We have become so eager to squeeze as much as possible out of our shamefully short conscientiousness, that we have completely disregarded its utter uselessness.
I do apologise for my incapacity to eat my daily circus’ bread for the sake of entertaining myself into this, oblivion’s waiting chamber called lifetime…
I do apologise for my complete unwillingness to consider only the beginnings, turning a blind heart’s eyes to what shouldn’t follow, the end…
I do not want to understand death.
I do not want to accept death as “naturally” associated with life, as much as I don’t want to accept evil as anywhere related to beauty and goodness.
As one who hasn’t requested entrance into this world, please allow me the right of denying myself the allowance of stupidity.
Allow me to conclude that life in all its unfathomable beauty, is nothing else but utter emptiness, perpetually filled with more and more new, innocent lives, bound to gloriously live up to the vain task bestowed upon them by careless lovers…
Beautiful soap bubbles we are; endlessly rejoicing in one another’s miriad of colours, just to fade into a last ghostly flicker as we silently burst, leaving the short tear touch of an ephemeral presence.
Do you wonder why all known religions ultimately consider ascetic contemplation as their highest form of union with the “divine”? Behind this instinctual urge to live, lies a subliminal desire to end this seemingly endless conveyor belt of death…
I don’t care why it all started; it is just abject and unjust, and as such it should end.
And for those of you looking for cheap discounts, no, I’m not suggesting any, neither mass, nor solo suicides. These are just irresponsible and selfish crimes against those left behind to bear not only their own sysiphic burdens, but also that of the ungrateful dead…
No, I am calling for a new revolution of love…
Of fruitless love…
Of passion and absorbtion into one another, of devotion and sacrifice, ’till death shall part us, for good.
Unwilling children we arrived in this world, and childless should we remain; respectful to what we would have decided, should anyone cared to ask us before we were conceived. No one would have consented to this prologue onto dying.
And if that be the case, no one should be consenting to their children’s death, regardless how falsely remote it may seem.
And yes, I know, for most of us parents, it is too late.
Late to do anything about our careless love, anything else but the raptured contemplation of, and the utmost devotion to the wonders holding our hands, until oblivion shall part us.
And if you think it to be repulsive what you have red, do walk with your children through a cemetery and imagine yourself for a moment, leaving without them…
You’ll feel what many of us have so much wished to never feel.
And if finally you’ve come to think beyond your senses, remember to be honest when next time you talk to your growing children about life’s wonders.
The truth about the future end, shall ultimately free their present.

Bring death to it’s desirous end…

And for those religious of you, who think procreation is a divine directive, please do consider that the command to “go forth and multiply” has been given prior to “the fall”…
The statement about the sweat of our brows, the thorns and the thistles has never been a command; it is a bitter lament…

Like mine.

Photo source: Wikipedia

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Moonlikes…

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It’s never been easy to be; and it’s never been easy to draw a being’s character portrait of self, as life is a hidden statement of facts, barely awaiting any curiosity zealots to walk into it’s tender creases.
The Moon has been a source of inspiration for many adventurers hoping to catch a glimpse of its secrecy, knowing little of nothing about our “Lady” of the night’s darkest secret…
You see, the Moon is dead; cold, passionless, dusty and ever content to be dragged around in the same endless cicless of utter dependence upon its captors.
At a decent distance from Earth, far enough to cause no further tidalness, but close enough to fancy periodic outbursts of its sinisterness, crowning itself with the Sun’s gloriuos aura of light, in steady attempts to eclipse life, if it can’t have it anyway…
Usurping every night our crave for light, basking in our pathetic Stockholm syndrome, accepting adoration, sighs and poems from troubadours estranged, alone with their darkened daydreams of love…
“Dead” enough to never shine the fadest glimpse of self, alas alive enough to shamelessly wave back to every moron worshipping its hijacked “personality”…
Many are it’s lookalikes…
Moonlikes…
Wannabe impostors of any light available to be reflected as their own, happy to be loved, praised, or at least barked at; pathetic echo chambers repeating any sound until buried in silence…
One place though, shall forever be left to prove their utter falsness… The nothingness behind their faded, never changing pale brightness, the cold-dark side of their idle stillness.
In the light of others, these are but lightless shadows forever dragging themselves back into the darkness which spawned them.
You see, true flames, however small and feeble, don’t seem to cast shadows; regardless of the glory of the greater light in which they may be privileged to enter.
Do look behind…
See a shadow?
Bow then your miserable, flameless moonlike existence onto the lowest place true light may show you, and await there until your bared, dark side shall come alight to see its shadow’s last, regretless, long departure…

Away for good…

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“Sometimes being away gives you a better perspective of what is truly important; of what would be really missing…” Romulus Campan

Open letter to (any) god(s)… 2

“Left on our own,
we’re slowly dying;
alone…”

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Photo’s original source: unknown