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.
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.
1 comment:
Personally, I find it fascinating!
... in a nice, not terrorific way.
What is it that makes it horrible or amazing to different people? Life and consciousness, a gift or a curse. Since as you state that there is no continuity, and interpreting ourselves as consciousness, we can say are different at each time, so we die every moment. If we die everyday, why being afraid to die? Memories would be just illusory bounds in between times which we call continuity in a sentient way. Having memories is perhaps what gives us more pain regarding the finitude of consciousness. Good or bad they are precious to us.
Now pointlessness, the agony of the self-aware. Where did the concept come from? Is it transmitted, mosquitoes perhaps? I guess not, otherwise people from the tropics would be more philosophical in that case.
No kidding now, sometimes it seems to me it was accentuated by the popularization of games, since there is a clear point: winning, being the best at some subjective matter. Perhaps it comes from religion, perhaps it religion comes from being afraid of pointlessness.
We know nothing, Anastenazondas. But for me there is a beauty in it.
Btw, did the Sammourai killes the Ninja? How does the Samourai feels about death? Why the hell would they be fighting in a train? Inside or on the roof? So many questions.
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