Words by Sepia, art by Cramulus (in some sense)
Why should I desire what is dead? Why should I love or hate my fellow man, why should I need to feel anything for them? I know they have feelings, the barbarians, the general livestock but why should I care, why should I see them deeply into the eyes and tell them that I love them or just tell them to fuck off, why should I be forced to live in a world where I need a meaning? I have no meanings, no clear definition of good or of evil. I think I understand differently than all of them us you. I have no clear notion of time and I’ve always been a fan of linearity but never when it comes to time, sometimes regarding space. I create my memories, I do not get them by accident, it all happens by a design. I have control in my life and I know its’ spectre is what’s haunting me, I know I will never get rid of it, I can hear old man marley’s chains in the hall but I know each step he takes, I know where he moves. Control or order is the same as chaos and the same as any talent and like there are xaositects there are men, children and women of ordnung. I control my life by knowing chaos. I become a dictator in an anarchistic commune.
We smelled a different world as the sun broke the beautiful black line on the horizon. We knew it was coming, we had felt its rays an hour ago, reflected upon the surfaces before our eyes catch up, then our minds. Do you remember how they spoke to us when we were little? Do we speak in that tongue now? We did, didn’t we, we became them, we became that truth in a pardoned moment where dreams weren’t here no more so we made our own but we can still hear those who wait in the churches synagogues and mosques, we hear them in the street, whispering the same way a metaphor is shown in a hollywood blockbuster. There is no smoke, there are no illusions. Not anymore. We threw it away, through the window, we defenestrated the new world order by tossing what was useful of it out the window and we yelled for hours and hours, arguing what books were mine and yours, what movies, what music, what furniture, what we had spent all this time doing, what it all had mounted to, what it would feel like to fuck a last time, what we were going to do now, what would be the roadblocks ahead of us, what
Why should we give them our hate, our love, what did they do to deserve any response whatsoever? See! The writer wishes he was in the future but he is himself holding future back, not even thirty and already a dinosaur. The future is now, the writer lives in the thirties but he keeps reaching out to us because he doesn’t see time like we see it, he sees the snake and he has ridden it, communed and communicated with it, seen through its eyes like apprentice magicians see the world through the eyes of a pigeon, here is the snake. There was a third man in the garden of eden and he asked a question. There was no snake like mister crowley never had that mongoose, only the perception of it.
As we pass from belief to certainty.