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skinny-dipping in the eternal abyss

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“The very concept that another person could look at me, could see my face, and feel anything but disgust is unbelievably foreign to me. It is an impossible idea, and so grossly inaccurate to the reality of my world as to be entirely inadmissible.”

-- Anonymous

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Black, Bottled Ink

I stare into the black, bottled ink, and think of the things it could be. It is a well of potential, not yet given form or function. Anything might come from it, but for now it sits, unopened on my desk. 

In those hours, where I find my thoughts have gone to roam, it would seem that life is a lot like that bottle of ink. There is so much that life could be. Its potential is limitless, and wasted. All comfort comes from the false hope of a better, more compelling future.

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So often I find that anger is the sole occupant of my mind. It is not the burning anger of passion, rather the empty, hollow rage of frustration and malcontent. All that I can do is scream silently into oblivion, and pray the abyss might alone comprehend this thing that eats me from within.

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To fade away...

I think that I should like to disappear, to fade away into the old and wild wood. I am tired of the world and its people and their folly. I am tired of the broken thoughts, and empty hearts. I am tired of distraction, that foul, addicting drug. I am tired of hatred, of desire, and pain. If this is the way of the world, is it so much to ask to sleep in waking dream forever?

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Bitter Cold

The hands are stiff and slowed. The air is bitter and cold. All warmth, a distant memory, long forgotten. Freezing wind bites and burns along the skin. When will the winter end, and spring begin?

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On this 17th of February, 2021

So strange is it, that in all manner of things, one day should be as it is. A day can be great and meaningful to some, and completely foreign to another, and yet the day itself does not change by any measure of substance. Absurd to think that the same random point in time contains so many, contradicting meanings. 

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Honesty

It is the so named “honest man” who alone is most deceitful. The truth-teller knows that no great truths have been told by honest men. For their honesty is denial of the great lie. The lie by which all virtue stems. The lie that a man may live and be honest. A man may only strive for truth, and know that he shall never possess it.

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On Fear, Love, and Courage

Fear is the great enemy. It seeps in and grips the heart like a vice. No great deeds can be done before fear is conquered, and there is but one true vanquisher of fear, and that is love. To make love that is brave and noble, as all love ought to be, will lay waste to cowardice, and inspire courage. When the fear does return, and it will, make love again, and stronger than before.

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The mercy of the raging sea is far kinder to we, than the harshly dull mundane of life along the land, shackled to society. Far better to breath in the darkness of the waves, than drown in the tar and muck of man’s final days

I admire the ocean. Wide and deep, completely another dimension. It is calming and charming, but also terrifying. It’s a mystery that will never be solved. It’s powerful, destructive, and healing. And the waves, they’re everything: unstoppable, fierce, the expression of the moon on earth. I want to get lost in the middle of the ocean. Please, let me get lost in the ocean.

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Beginnings

The journey has begun, the ending not yet written. What will we write? What is worth writing? Anything? Or nothing? That space between the two? All knowledge is deception. I seek truth beyond knowledge. But can it be found?

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Sentience is a disease. Humanity, a scourge on this planet. The world will rejoice when the last halls of men crumble into ash, and no trace is left of we the afflicted.