It’s not my fault that you think you’re the only one with things to need to think about.


l’esprit de sombre escalier

People think trigger warnings are effective disclaimers, when all they do is make some all the more curious as to whether they see the same darkness as the artist does: gazing into a Nietzchean abyss that gazes back, until it’s Musashi’s void inside you, but without having mastered anything. Sharing darkness is, after all, forbidden fruit which has to be hidden from the bright gaze of the social God, lest one be cast on the goat hand even before judgment day.

facade // fade

These days, I think about dependence. Society has transcended the social contract, evolving into social symbiosis: the survivalist’s reliance–“I need you”–contradistinguished from convenience–“I want you”–a point of focus in an environment where spheres bleed into each other. In rebellion, thus, people assign spheres to relationships: for richer, for poorer, fair weather, liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.

But what when mis-assignment/mis-alignment occurs? One attempts to traverse the bounds of their sphere, and is aptly chastised: the sight is of a popping bubble, an iridescent field returning to molecules; the sound is of anything from glass breaking to dragged footsteps to “get the fuck out of here”–either climactic or denouement, but always punctuated by silence.

There is also the issue of loss, or rather, its inevitability, or rather, its response: people are not institutions, people tend to forget. Facades wear away through time, over time–some decades, some mere minutes–revealing bitter, pitted cores: hard, dark, inedible, to be discarded for inconvenience. No matter, there are enough skins left in an average city to feast on: it is enough that there are enough to need, no need to be enough.

I have had a bit too much to drink I should not be typing

It’s the idle hours that scare the most, those which give way to thoughts which, while idle, go down a predictable path: you’ve been down this road before, and it’s never turned out well. That thing (with full awareness of the word’s implication of an existence/presence, when it could just easily be an absence), empty but heavy. Unnamed, for to name it would be presumptuous, so you say you’re tired, and when they ask why, you say you don’t know (which answer is, at its most essential sense, true, even if the one preceding it only half so).

It’s the quiet which makes the voices come out, to ask you why you think you are even half the worth you ascribe to yourself, to jeer at your folly for doing so. You were lucky for the past twenty or so years, don’t think you will be as lucky in the days to come. What is all of this, anyway, but a string of encounters that you live through, or don’t, because to survive is to change.

It’s the spaces that you fill with lines and shapes: drab little things, but moving, playing nevertheless, as the separation of space is definite, if not tangible; as if, to say that we are nothing but a billion infinitesimal little sparks whose struggle is staying together/whole, because to subscribe to the contrary would be to accept that we are no different from the space surrounding us, that nothing begets nothing, and the reason why we have been so fascinated with magic is because of its penchant for fooling us into thinking that something can come out of nothing, and that that very same something can become nothing, when the world has taught us otherwise.