How It Is



I am not proud to be a man, because I know only too well what it is to be man.

—E. M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair

When people are faced with extreme pessimism they run, run as fast as they can back into their comforting delusions; the comfort of the dammed. As creatures of misery we seek to assuage our suffering, broker arrangements that will alleviate both mental and physical pain through externalizing our fears and trepidations, our anxieties onto those others – the monsters that inhabit our lives. We cannot live with our monsters, but seek beyond all things to bury them in a world of art and fiction where they can be controlled and imprisoned; relegated to the innocuous childhood of nightmares. Yet, every so often those monstrous impulses we hide from ourselves suddenly leap out of their crevices, seep into our lives from the hinterlands of delusional hysteria, crumbling the armature of our thick protective barriers, revealing at last that we, we alone harbor legions, legions of demons…

Almost anyone who reads a book is either seeking an answer to life’s misery, or their seeking to escape it; there being no middle-path. The truth is we all want someone else to give us the answer we most desire, as if long ago something happened, some strange and twisted thing changed our lives, an event that came and went so subtly that we didn’t even notice how the world changed; and then we woke up and realized years after that somewhere along the way we’d entered our own private Twilight Zone, discovered we’d lost a day, a week, a month, or leap year along the way. Something went missing in our lives, something profound we lost amid the hustle and bustle of daily activities, something we wish we knew what vanished into the world like a small fragment of our souls, gone forever; pfft, erased. And now we keep wandering round in a vicious circle looking for it, that… lost thing.

It’s like we want an answer all wrapped up like a Christmas present, stuffed with everything we’d always hoped for, the wisdom of the ages and all that horseshit – and, then it comes: a gift from the blue, we unwrap it, and there it is, the mystery we’ve all hoped for, the truth we’ve sought for far too long… and, then bam, a Jack-in-the-Box pops out holding a toy gun, laughing and swaying like a comic fool, and then shoots the pistol at us, a flag unfurling from the gun like an old time school banner – with a message on it for us: “Ha, ha, ha, ha… You’re fucked, that’s the truth of it, honey child!” Yea, somewhere in the pit of our stomach we knew it all along, we knew there wouldn’t be some deus ex machina popping out of the woodworks to save our ass, no siree… we knew that at the end of the road all there was … was nothing, no answer, no Angelic hand dangling from some Tin heaven with a sign saying: “Redemption, this way…”. No, instead we found this promissory note, a blank tab with an unmarked signature, an open and incomplete bank note telling us we don’t have enough to pay our way to oblivion… instead we’ll have to repeat this same life over and over and over without reprieve; a prisoner of our own desires for eternity.

Condemned to eternal repetition we’ll wile away the nights and days refining our small apocalypses like urban cowboys or New York dilettante’s of small ennui’s. The trivialization of reality in situ, a winking nod to the labor gods of some comic disaster awaiting a streamlined deco punk arboretum, filled not with spacious organicism’s but rather the metalloid dreams of some lost purveyor of nightmares. The officiating priests of this decadent enterprise offering us the simple truths of the faithless and the con man, the slow burn of sordid betrayals and the lip service of sinister anathemas. Yes, eternity is a zone of hate and sadism, an exclusive club for the discognition of sybaritic minds whose distempered thoughts were too well manicured by professional adverts. We are the victims of our own deceits,  triumphant only in our denials and inabilities to accept our own responses or lack thereof. Knowing the truth we mask it with our unused life, unable to exist alone we huddle together in the sink holes of felonious enclaves, dripping with the fatal strategies of would be lepers whose hidden desires seek only the twisted infestations of cenobites. Tempted to escape our fate, we create its lasting spillage – the seeping horror of an abyss too wide to encompass our own black hearts. Slipping away from reality into the Real we invent the Unreal world of our enslaved desires, living out our living death in this hellish paradise like gods lost among the debris of a universal ruin.

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