I do not presume to understand or know the future before it reaches me. I know the past all too well, and I understand the rhythmic repetition of themes throughout all time and my personal time on this ball of mud. I have seen good, bad, and indifferent, I have seen the cogs spin and sprockets fall from their places, in almost scripted certainty. I am no god, I have not the god’s eye view, though the lack of imagination in human interactions, in the maliciousness and kindnesses they perform, is uninspiring. It is always a war of the righteous self against the heathen other, and all still for naught, both on the individual and the global level. How humanity has not fallen deep into ennui and decided to end it all for itself is beyond me, if I were a god I would have done it for them.
It is, after all, the fate fitting for a race of beings so gifted and yet so unappreciative.
Humans do not understand the gift of their ignorance in regard to true unadulterated horror, the power that complete joy has to totally destroy, just with its absence. Muted and muddled passion is all you have, lucky humans, to not have to feel the world they way some of us do, to relive a joyous time in the past, and have it evaporate like dust. Let us not mention the pain, the inescapable barbs within the mind, humans posit that the sting can fade with time, though this is only true for you, it is not the case for me and my kind. Unbridled and uncontrollable passion is not the gift, it is crippling, it is forever having a raw wound being picked at, it is being covered in gasoline and smoking a cigarette. The temporary dips into my day to day, though they may last a week, or a month, as horrific as it may seem is not even the tip of the iceberg. There is a light, and it is not the freight train coming to launch you back to your internal inferno, it is salvation, it is moving on, because you may have seen the darkness, but you cannot fathom entering. Feel fortunate, the darkest night of your soul is a good day for me, and the bad days for me, the ones I crawl through would have you, as a former friend of mine used to say, suck start a shotgun.
Calm yourselves, oh so fortunate and blind humans, you can never truly see the world as we do, the ones filled with darkness, who live beyond the veil of normalcy. You will never see the exact same theme running over and over again, every repetition is new because of some small detail, it is the current year or this and that is not really the same. It is ok, you will live through your shit, as you always do and still remain none the fucking wiser. Perhaps there in lies the irony, those of us with passion are often seen as impulsive and foolhardy, and yet we are the only ones equipped to accumulate wisdom. Be happy, normal people, stupidity and sane is by and far more desirable that wise and insane, being dispassionate is a gift. I would never dream of making you all pay for your good fortune, I would not know how even if I desired such.
So I burn, therefore I stand. This is the calling card of the passionate, eaten alive by a soul on fire yet withstanding, surviving, striving, thriving on the raging inferno within. Consumed and ever consuming, hollowed out and alone, giving life in our harrowing extremes. Many an inspirational quote can be found supporting being different, but the proposition taken away is to be quirky, to have one thing. This is not what I am talking about, at all. Passion about a subject is not different, humans like to specialize, it is passion incarnate, it is caring so much, feeling so much of every experience that just to breathe could make one explode in anguish or ecstasy. The comfort provided by a soothing soul, by a cigarette, a stiff drink, or chemical indiscretion, knowing, believing, understanding these are all temporary and fleeting. And so I burn, ever-burning fuel, therefore I remain steadfast, I walk, stand, crawl onward, living fire, burning a trail in the uncharted darkness of my soul.
I bleed from invisible wounds, to hope to bleed dry, but never see that day. Stripping away scars of darkness, to show a smile, ingenuine, I know, but what is a monster to do? People tell me I deserve happiness, but they cannot see the world I do, they do not understand that what they wish for me is a mere illusion, an impossible quest. How does one achieve happiness when he is simply a bag of broken glass, waiting for that one tug to spill shards of pain onto the floor? And so I bleed, fire hot blood, from cuts gained from a subtle dagger forged by normalcy and wielded by all. You take for granted your life, you project such upon others, though true for some it is not for all, for those it is false, you cut them. You cut deep, you cut hard, and you never know, you may cut deep enough to reach the fire, and I pray you never feel its burn.
This is how I stand, as I bleed, as I burn, smoke does not fill my lungs, it is my lungs, ash is my mouth. Breathing fire, being fire, as always I am standing, in my darkness, alone. I do not want your pity, your sadness, your attention, no I do not even want your love, you are incapable of loving something like me. Your shallow aesthetic attention you claim is love is a shadow of the maelstrom which stirs within me when I give of myself. This tempest feeds off the true emotions, and more often than not they are disgust, hate and anger, never love. In the negative lies the purity of man, rebuke me for I know it true, and in earnest truth will set me free from a lifetime of lies. Please, burn me alive with the white hot truth of my ineligibility of your adoration, I will love the pain you grant me, far more than I could ever love you. It is the purest and most honest part of a human, the pain, the disappointment, the rejection, the ugliness is the beautiful monster, all of the pretty is but a lie.
Your insistence is your arrogance, it gives you a sense of moral high ground of doing what is right, it is how you lean on a crutch, you keep safe, you live the careful way. It is how you lead your tedious normal life, behind a glass wall to keep yourself clean. It is dirty in the raw, unforgiving wastes, muddied and bloodied knees and fingers, from crawling and clawing in the agony that is true life. Stay clean. In this hell, this is where I thrive, this is where I stand, this is where I feel, in my sick sad way, alive. Burning. Bleeding.