Absurdia.Net

Even the dead water of this black pool has a soul, although still and remote. These people, they can succeed because they are alive. I am barren and extinct. What simulates life on the exterior is a growth like fungus that clings to the skin, shifting and inflating tissue, stretching impressions for what it’s worth. This ascending movement of the hand, the oily glint of the eye, are not life, not at all. They are surrogates, nature moving along reasonable trails. The sparse words randomly dropped, too, are not life. It’s not purpose that I lack — I don’t even know the meaning of purpose — it’s life. I killed something, somewhere, at some point, and I can’t remember what it was. Maybe it was something that was never there in the first place.

I feel my body expanding in the wrong directions, a mass of matter without any natural logic. All this sense of redundant growth is like a loss and a fraud. Inflating, a blade of darkness cuts into my side and the body becomes a sponge, absorbing all the poisons of the world till the day will come that it will be so spoiled that there won’t be an ounce of the goodness that was given to me at birth anymore. I’m rotting faster than I should, I’m afraid. Rotting inside and outside, and I don’t know which is which or what’s worse. And while fooling around trying to pretend I can bring decency and relevance to the world, I only find myself developing bags under my eyes, and wrinkles and holes, and vulgar features, and weightiness. I don’t recognize any of this anymore, but caring is too dangerous. Caring people are the first to go to hell. Letting corruption do its gruesome job is much easier and has its convenience. I can shed a tear or pull my hair once or twice now and then, but for the rest it all ends in a crater.
I wanted to be graceful and I wanted to be sane. But most of all I would have liked to create content worthy projections of an interesting soul. Or whatever. All the pretentious claim to be entangled to the absurd is a pose. It’s not even the Absurd in the true sense of the word that I can count in my chords, it’s just a chaotic pile of lazy nothing. I cut and paste slices of mess and then there’s nothing left. It comes from nothing and in nothing it ends, all of it. I’d gladly exchange life of this fake absurdity for a crumb of content and meaningfulness.