And so I sit here with nothing but my pen, paper and the Nine Inch Nails gouging at my brain in a sure and sweet fashion. “Too fucked-up to care anymore,” I throb in time to the beat, secure in my own idea of eudemonia. The debris of a shattered soul makes for a savouring most exquisite, once ground up and served up through this! Who could contemplate that such a wasted stretch of life could give birth to something so monstrously refined?
Watching the whole world wilt around you, I guess, can have a fertilizing effect on one’s being; that is to say, the remains of that which once was can nourish the birth of one’s own “what is” and “what will be.” The keys chime in time to the falling away of the grey – the chain that once bound you with its decay of lustre – or is that lustrous decay – crumbles and dissolves, leaving you with freed, fetterless flesh and thought. Yet, I wonder – how many would swallow up….nay, seduce the onset of nothingness , giving birth to something better, and how many would shiver under the cold, black void of the night sky, naked and abandoned in the absence of slavish steel and lockstep?
Of each, how many indeed?