To live is to be sodden. There is nothing arid about existence, nothing laundered or distinct. To live is to reek, to forever seep into circumstances. All gateways to the human stink. The ears. The mouth as much as the anus, for some.
And the eyes, the eyes most of all.
To live is to consume and to exude, to excrete and to chew, to turn upon a thousand hidden alchemies, rheumy transformations of what we lust into what we abhor ... or love.
And so life convulsed and life was expelled from the socket, drawn sheeted in blood from the suffocating real, the very muck of amniotic origin, and held exposed to the scrutiny of cold Void, the hospice of prayer...
So that some essence might alight...
Some breath be drawn and screamed.
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Yes, curious how insanity creeps up on you. There comes a point where all the old ways of making sense just slough away. You persist in your daily ablutions, your ritual discourse and habitual labor. But an irritation claims you, the suspicion that others conspire to mock and confuse. This is all that you feel. The madness itself is invisible… all you ever see are cracks of fear and incomprehension where before all was seamless… thoughtless… certain. Soon you dwell in perpetual outrage, but are too fearful to voice it, because even though you know everything is the same, you no longer trust those you have loved to agree, so spiteful they have become! Their concern becomes condescension. Their wariness becomes conspiracy. Only depravity retrieves the wayward soul.
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