Friday, October 09, 2015

Sweet release.

I long for the sweet release of endorphins in my blood stream.
A reward from my genetics to the sentinence module of the body.
Armlocked, the testes and brain stand.

A consciousness stream, lost in time, in stress and existentialism.
My words are useless thoughts recorded on a machine that would make generations of humans weep; weep, if even for a moment they chanced an access to it.
It gives me luxuries, and endorphins.
A false sense of worth, of importance.

Hysterophimia, fame after you are dead.
An ancient greek ideal at the grasp of our fingertips.
Our words etched with magnets and lasers on rotating discs,
copied over and over, queried by other readers.

When shall it all fade to blackness?
When you die, do you panic?
Can you get tired from living, tired enough that letting go is easy?

Paths unfold like flowers and all I can see is a future of wilting petals, of worms swimming in the stagnant water of a vase in which the stems are slowly decomposing.

Do we pluck our dreams to decorate our imaginariums instead of letting them take root?
I long to pierce the illusion, comprehend the magician's trick, yet an abyss is awaiting behind the smokes and mirrors and distractions of day to day life.

I sporadically claw at life, trying to grip it, to thrust and engrave myself into moments of time.
Pointlessly.
Life moves and you end up breaking your nails, your finger-bones and tendons, holding on to memories of a human that you no longer are.

Continuity is fake, and memory is false, but still I anguish.
In a bad movie from my past a scene forms.

Samuraï versus Ninja,
In a train they fight.
The Samuraï wins by disarming the ninja.
Offers her to chose her death, suggesting a clean decapitation.
"Kill me for as long as possible, as painfully as you can. For every painful breath will be a moment more where my body reminds me I am alive".

Yet would I not prefer life to flee me without my consciousness?
My death is a given that stresses me beyond reckoning.