This a disclaimer — a renunciation of the reigning reality such as it is, a skeptic belief of the abstraction of meaning itself, a vivid dream of the tiresome transience of Life.
This is a verbal war of volition against frantic fantasies & violent verities. This is a message of self-conflict — an absolute dissonance of the psyche.
This is the triumph of chaos over order, the invariantly varying abnormal nature; for nature, after all, is marred, cursed to be beautiful. For what is beauty but an appealing atrocity, a monstrous masterpiece.
It was the distant lights that uttered a lyrical beauty as much as the distant voices shed a garish aura of synthesis, an entirety of the eternal & the temporal, a blend of duty & freedom, a composition of the mundane & the sublime, a mixture of murk & incandescence, a means to the unattainable, a labyrinth unto enlightenment.
That smell of mediocrity, that scent of the prosaic press that thronged across his compelled existence as he walked the staggering streets. That fragrance of a gruesome grace, a foul fairness, a beastly beauty. There is a beauty, after all, in mediocrity; a simple extravagance within the uninspired, an enchantment into those who are uninformed, a charm within the ignorant.
Such beauty was tantalizingly serene; an orgastic depiction of modern artistry. Such a vulgar notion of reality — to denounce oneself, that is. There is a despair within detachment from your own self; to want to be someone else. There is a despair in conformity, an entertaining evil.
There is a temptation that lies within the unnatural norms of the world. There is a regular raging resistance against the waves of change; such terrifyingly terrific tide of change, such abundant pace of our nature that we always refuse. Yet there’s a lust to all what never lasts, a trance within transience. There’s a pleasure in a delayed pain, & a pain within a delayed pleasure. There’s a piety within the naked intuition.
Such was the terrible truth of the shunned, those who embrace antipathy at its heart, accepting aversion, reigning the hours of their perpetual night. Forever wrathful. Forever angry. Forever authentic. For what can a man be without his anger?! what may the soul exist for, if not for embracing her own darkness; her own sins?! To take his darkness would only mean to take his own self. To make him a sinful solitary, a pious perpetrator. A corpus reanimated into the anomaly the world needs him be; normal.
“Normal”. The word spewed upon the wrathful raving ruins of his blind beliefs. This verbal defilement, such sensitive savagery or cruel clemency. It forced a blend of resilient leniency & affectionate apathy filled the firmament of his feelings. That peccant & pious passion towards existence & absence. A monotonous fluctuation of feelings; to subsist on the fulcrum of Life itself. An anemic ambiguity, a grotesque disgrace holding dominion over the aura of his thoughts till time loses all significance. Till Love is lost & all Life may end. Such was his desire of a vivid death or a livid life; to either die or live into a moral depravity; mortality vs. morality. & the question is: when losing the lust for living; without that dread of death, what life may possibly mean? What are you if you feared not? After all, There’s morality within mortality.
Such peaceful battle; the lust for the livid yet lushful life of the flock. of the seemingly moral masses — permanently preoccupied with normality; a nocturnal nuisance, a ruinous rapture, a screaming silence.
To him, a transient tune happiness is — a foreign rhythm, a poignant procession, a lost lullaby at the tides of his severely self-doubtful intellect. He always suffered an irredeemably persistent repulsion to regularity. Such ravenous crowds inhabiting the rotten mire; seeking price over value, means over meanings, product over purpose. Such an intimation of the decadence of Life. Those who live in sublime subjugation, languid conformity, atrocious obedience.
His tormenting tenacious tendency to learn, to quaff existence, to devour experience; such yearning goes hand in hand with his esteem for the masses that atrophies everytime he learns.
His stern spirit may soften by the gory grazes & wounds that time may inflict. His synthesis was too bleak to be portrayed. He sensed the peccant birth of his scorched — scourged soul out of his dreary dalliance with darkness.
Though his conviction was completely compromised, nothing was strenuously easy as his capacity to choose.
The unparalleled ability of choice & insight was his only blessing & curse channeled into the crossover of his intellect & passion.
Such might gave rise to a summoning, a calling — to sail the oceans of omniscience, seeing darkness for what it really is; enlightenment.
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