a paroxysm of dementia. so be it.

As I wend down life’s path, as she places before me her patina of goodies, raw and bear, I am deeply disturbed. But I am only disturbed when I remove myself from the instant, when I detach myself as if in a pathetic attempt to be objective, and analyze what is taking place or has taken place. Of course, I am not naïf as to believe that I can ever be objective; it is a noble myth. I may be a noble beast, but beast nonetheless.

But it is during these instances that I am both filled with freedom and sadness. Yes, I am free now, but would you mind telling me, what am I to do with myself? I simply do not know. But then again, I haven’t the foggiest idea what ‘freedom’ is, it’s one of these things people speak of until their mouths grow tired, exhausted. And yet, nothing comes out! It’s all waffles, sheer nonsense. We speak of freedom as if we knew what it is, just as we speak of love. Perhaps it is another perfunctory thing that we do; habituation is a funny thing. But yes, what do we honestly know? And honestly do we really care for honesty? NO! We want lies, sweet lies to comfort us.

– No. I want to be alone. I want to grow old in a room all to myself! – But I love you. I cannot bear to be apart from you! – Yes. But I want to be alone. Don’t you see? I was meant to be alone. Such is my nature. – But ….

Lies. Lies! Lies! Luft !Mehr Luft! to purge the filth that drowns us! Gad, could I be more bitter, more jaded? But what does it matter! I am what I am; a despondent, tattered self that is too far down the path of freedom.

No, no, honesty is too harsh for us. We are weak and pathetic beings. We invented this universe of gods and fate; we rob ourselves of action, of responsibility. We surrender responsibility. The gods made me do it, it was Apollo!

So it is during these very noble moments of quiet reflexion, moments of intense freedom and sadness, that I realize that I am some sort of ambulant salesman. But what am I selling exactly? what is the commodity I am attempting to pander off? I don’t know! To be honest, and as harsh as this may sound, honesty comes dearly to humanity, I am never honest. Yes, man is not only afraid of honesty but incapable of it. But how can one truly be honest? It is impossible.

Yes! This is the sad truth. But why must it be sad? Truth is truth, sans qualifiers. This is a just world you say. Or perhaps you shall say, this is an unjust world. And I will retort, strong and bold and rather scurrilously: Fool, this is the world we have been given. It is neither just or unjust. It simply is World!

Ah such truth will not liberate anyone, save myself, but what for? Instantly I shall be crushed by sadness. The world is World! Hah! Oh what is the purpose of this world then? I don’t know. I know nothing. Haven’t you realized this? I scream it to the four winds: I know nothing. There I’ve said it. I’ve been honest for once in my life. Everything else has been a lie. Yes, a lie.

– Why are you being honest now. – I cannot say. – Surely you know? – Perhaps I do. I am tired my friend. I am exhausted. – You are not exhausted! You’re young! – I am a vegetarian, what other proof do you require? Only exhausted, wasted-away beings seek what is harmful to them. Amen.

Now, we’ve digressed too much, and by this digression I suspect I have occluded my initial purpose. But what was it? I don’t think I really ever knew. Now I’ve even lost the instinct for it.

But, it is not my desire to become, how shall we put this, philosophical? Is philosophy not mere casuistry? Is it not some mental masturbation, some silly trepedation induced by semantics. And what is masturbation, are you not in the end, simply fucking yourself over? I’m sorry if I am too blunt, too vulgar … but I cannot always pull out of my sleeve (perhaps ass is more truthful) flowery phrases to sugarcoat what can be said succictly; I rather be prosaic, when it is convenient of course.

The science of incarcerating speech in writing is an ars! But how whimsical, it is also divine, for it is also the transformation of the Logos into flesh! But this is an act of God! True but who created God? Shh! Shh! I’ve said too much. I have offered you truth (again) and thus, freedom. But you are not ready for it. And I will be crushed by this freedom, this knowledge. Because none will believe me. I am Christ-returned. You crucified me and here I am, anew, your Messiah.

What have you done. I spake of God’s love. That was all and you’ve created … this … what is this. I only spake of God’s love! Oh God, why art though silent! God?

But enough histrionics. I don’t care for God and God does not care about little moi. He knows that le moi est haïssable and that it will destroy itself and with it, me.

Language is fantastic. I allows me to jump around and play these whimsical puerile games of tit for tat. How impish! But how horrible, how horrible would it be were I to wake up and discover, alas, I can no longer read! What would become of me, bereft of my means of communication, that fantastic aberration that allows me to transform myself into the most voluble being

But onward, we must return to the crux of the matter, or attempt to discover what it is, before I am emptied of this inspiration goading me onward. Perhaps it is not inspiration but insanity, provisional mind you, and I am attempting to bleed it out of my system.

Happiness. What is it? Aristotle would have us believe that it is the end or raison d’être of man.

Mais l’homme n’a pas un fin ni de la raison. Il est un absurdité si absurde. Il est la bête plus bête! Silly little thing!

But what did Aristotle know. We Westerners, we who are fastidiously and nauseatingly obsessed with liberté, égalité, fraternité (the French, a funny and queer bunch have always been able to better-formulate our noble ideals), are under the illusion that aristocrats were lovers of democracy. Plato and Aristotle and the whole bunch of old farts that constitute the foundation of Western thought, we revere them as gods. We are so simple, so foolish, as to believe these fantastic lies. Our culture is predicated on the ideas of men who supported anything but equality.

Pardon me while I vomit. Equality is absurdity! Equality is timidity. Ah yes, see Plato and Aristotle, and the whole bunch of anti-humanist, anti-democratic jetset has infested me. I am virulent against Equality – noble bitch. I’ve read too much of these monsters and now as I attempt to free myself, the signs of my former dazzlement shine through. My hatred for equality comes not from me but from their tutelage. Oh if it has corrupted me, what else must it have done to all those wonderful minds that have imbibed their hate?


I said I knew nothing. I must now grow quiet. The reflexion is over. I am anew an ambulant salesman who does not know what he sells. The sadness that engulfs my freedom has ebbed away. But it shall return and perhaps again I shall write absurdities. I am being honest, for the second time. Shall this become the trend? And can you handle it?