Life: First, foremost, and usually, is an imposing of one thing upon another. Dogma incarnated into a mechanical process which is semi-conscious. From there, it moves on up to more advanced and complex forms, which can suffer and cause suffering in far deeper, far larger ways, whilst things such as insects, bacteria and plants have no dreadful delusions and depressions. At the top of natural “progress” is simply a more complex and extreme form of what is at the lower levels: Generally imposing selfish upon neutrality. Putting bias where there is none. Adding opinion to inanimate matter, so that it can struggle for no real reason other than sensation.
Death: yee hath open arms to greet me, and thee hath a gaping mouth in order to swallow me, until I pass through the fires of thee, and become ashes behind thee. The one thing certain, the one thing inevitable, the one thing to look forward to during the farthest sense of conscious foresight one has, and this continues to be it: destruction, failure and loss. In nature, less stable forms rapidly topple down into more stable forms. Stand a pencil up on its tip, it falls, and lays flat. Things “balance out” to an entropic point, of which things are the most dissolved. This is the natural pull of death herself. She is not even hungry, no, she instead is the momentum of our own dualistically distorted flux. It would be her way for us to bring ourselves down, by nature and by custom, to a mound of less-complex, lower-paced, spread out energy. To liquify, is the art of death. To melt, to dissolve, is the art of death. To balance, is the art of death. To neutralize, is the art of death, in and of itself.
Somarasifia, I call out, but the hands of the gods hold my mouth shit. I lay crushed and limited. I cannot reach thee, but in the times before such harsh days, I had expressed it anyways. I have screamed, with a pitch so loud, that my teeth did bleed, in the center streets of your bright and pure cities. I looked down every road, you built with your own dreams and compassion for your fellow beings, and I also knew, in what is left of my heart, that all of this, could or would be destroyed. This is my outcry, for you, not for myself. It is for the world, and the universe which is so stupid that it cannot even express itself and solve its own problems. Yes, worse than a handicapped child in a temper-tantrum, I release energies within myself which simply cannot ever undo YOUR stupidity. Oh universe, you have no sense for your children, you are a fowl mother, giving birth to incompleteness.
Damned I was, and my birth, oh gods, my birth, did you not want me to dance and amuse, at my own expense, and in your own non-reason? It was your will that I have the tendons cut, so that I could not stand out compared to the mass. You hath become that which you try to stop. You are hypocracy, madness, insanity, bias, doubethink, vileness, meaningless partiality, brute dogma, and cold, harsh depravity. Oh yes, oh yes, your deffly retarded ears cannot hear the universal call for unity. You shall fall, in the cataclysm which you have placed on the shoulders of your children. I never even had a chance, but I tried so hard to get one, anyways, and then, you broke my bones and took my few coins. Killed my friends, you did. Hated my realms, you did. And what have I ever done to you? Perhaps the taste of my flesh and hard work was appealing to you? And this is my sin? This is my great merit for punishment!? My own goodness? Oh yes, the beauty of nature is raped, consumed and shit out. All beauty is a punishable crime, and its punishment is the coming of slavery, of neglect, of suppression, of annihilation, it shall be forsaken. You have no law other than this madness of yours, this brute desolation, is your law, your way of control, via exploits and suppressive measure. The creator, more wicked than the creation. My eyes, stabbed by the inborn defect of ignorance, and now, a life devoted to self-cure, but wait, is not intelligence itself weak, compared to one directed bullet? Certainly, it is so easy to destroy anything which tries to achive beyondness, that thee dooms all that is not the disease itself.
My loves bled into your greedy hands. No human emotion can describe or assess this process. My overmind understood, the pain beyond pain, which you unstoppably are, oh Lords of power. You took away my dreams, to destroy me with the reduced and corrupted version of my own efforts. You took away one thing of higher value, and gave back a thing of lower value, because you are such a machine, one that only generates its own old, failing repetition. The circularness of your insanity is infinite, that is your power, your infinite insanity, and not even comprehensible is it, but its result is observed, its result kills you, oh madness. The constant self-reduction of consciousness.