NOTHING BUT POETRY
EVERY FUTURE EVENT IS HIDDEN IN THE PAST. LOOK AT ITS DEAD TWIN, A COPY, AN IMITATION, A BEAUTIFUL PREDICTION. PAY ATTENTION, MY LOVE. THOSE HIDDEN IMAGES, SIGNS, REFERENCES. THE HEAVIEST SENSE OF HOMESICKNESS. OR JUST SICKNESS. WITHIN THE WALLS, THE BONES, THE ACHES, THE WOUNDED SOULS, THE DAMAGED PIECES OF FLESH.
A MEATGRINDING, A MINDGRINDING FEELINGS OF THE FINAL END TO COME TRUE. THE TRUTH IS HIDDEN IN TODAY. NO OTHER BODY FORM CAN CONFIRM OR ACCUSE IT OF THE UNTRUTH. FEEL THE HEARTBEAT, WATCH ITS PUPILS, ITS REACTION. A SENSE WITHIN A SENSE. SATURATED EVENINGS, BLOOD-SPILLING NIGHTS.
HOMESICKNESS, THAT'S IT. MY WHOLE EXISTENCE OF TODAY DESCRIBED IN ONE, LONELY WORD. AS I AM LONELY, IDENTICAL TO ME, FAMILIAR TO ME. DISSECTED FROM THE SAME MATTER. THE BODILY LEVEL IS NEVER IMPORTANT. PERSONAL KNOWLEDGE STANDS ABOVE ANY OTHER.
WISHING DEATH TO A LIVING MORTAL CATTLE IS MEANINGLESS AND HAS NO BENEFIT FOR THE WISHER. YOUR SIDE IS WITHIN MY SHADOW. YOU DIE LIKE I DIE. YOU LIVE LIKE I LIVE. MANY CENTURIES AGO WE ONCE HELD EACH OTHER'S HAND. I SPOKE TO MYSELF IN A LANGUAGE UNKNOWN TO ME BEFORE MY FIRST SOFT WHISPER.
ONE DAY I RESURRECTED YOU AGAIN. THEN YOU HURT ME. MY PREVIOUS SIDE OF MYSELF. NOW IT IS DEAD, AS YOU ARE. YOU STOLE IT FROM ME, FROM THE IMPURE SIDE THAT WAS LOVED BY YOU, AS YOU TOLD ME. DIED LIKE A DOG, I HEARD. HUNGER, STARVATION, HEAVY GASPS.
LISTEN TO MY MELODY, WHICH IS HIDDEN WITHIN THE SENTENCES. LISTEN TO THE SWEETEST MUSIC, WHICH IS MY LETTERS. MUCH MORE I OFFER TO THE READER OF THESE LETTERS, HE WILL NOT REALIZE UNTIL MUCH LATER. BE IN THE THREAT, BE IN THE THEATER, WATCH FROM THE DISTANCE. ENJOY THE ACT.
A BEAUTIFUL, ANGELIC BEING COMES TO A CONCLUSION THROUGH UNIMAGINABLE PAIN, SUFFERING, FEAR, BLOOD, TEARS, BODILY LOSSES, A BRUTAL CLEANSING PROCEDURE. AFTER THAT, LIFE IS BUT A JOKE. LIFE IS A GAME TO PLAY. LOCATION IS THE PLAYGROUND. BODY IS THE INSTRUMENT.
FOR SUCH A BEING, WHO HAS PASSED THROUGH ALL THE HORRORS OF THE LOWEST LEVELS, THERE IS NO MORE SERIOUSNESS ON THE PHYSICAL PLANE. POETRY IS WHAT IS LEFT OUT OF ALL OF THIS. THE GREATEST ART IS WHAT THE BEING LEAVES AFTER ITSELF.
FOR THERE IS NO MORE POINT TO DIRECTLY CARE AND WRITE ABOUT THE THINGS THAT WERE "SERIOUS" ENOUGH THAT THE TIME TO WRITE ABOUT THEM WAS FOUND. THE BEING NOW HAS NOTHING BUT POETRY. THE BEING NOW HAS NOTHING MORE BUT ART. THE BEING NOW HAS NOTHING MORE BUT THE ULTIMATE REVELATION WITHIN ITSELF.
WRITING FOR THE SAKE OF WRITING WILL NEVER WORK AGAIN. THE FEELING OF FULFILLMENT IS ABSENT.
DINOYA 20/9/22 - 22/9/22 / 9/20/22 - 9/22/22
Comments