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A story about angst: Part 5
December 16, 2005 on 10:24 pm | In Kumara | 1 Comment | Sicopath.
Dear friends,
Time goes by so slowly. And I mean that in a literal sense. I saw an explosion an hour ago and it was magnificent. The plumes of fire and smoke dancing gracefully at a remarkably pedestrian pace. It’s almost worth being dead to experience the moment like I have.
I wonder if god can forgive a human spirit for enjoying its torment. With that thought, I remember a question regarding masochists being sent to hell. And with that thought, I wonder… Could anyone tell me what kind of punishment would be punishment enough for all people? Could an omniscient mind really begin to understand the divisions within individuals that turn punishment into rewards? Like cutting the limbs off of a gangrenous sufferer; hence I’m not content to believe that there is a hard and fast classification for our heavens and our hells.
Walking the path crossing a restroom, I asked myself; ‘what kind of hell would genuinely be “hellish” to me?’ Right on cue, as if I was being watched, my head feels faint and my stomach burns with an unknown fury… All I could think about now… Getting better? Feeling better… I need to cool off… I wish it would rain… I wish I could feel it rain… I wish I could feel a breeze inside me… Outside me… I feel… I feel like… I feel sick…
Instinctively, from my years of being alive… I ran to the toilets. When you feel sick, that’s your body urging you to find a toilet.
None were occupied, so I ran towards a toilet bowl, lifted the lid and puked up my ghostly sickness… When I looked back down at the freshly defiled bowl, I saw hell…
Will continue if I don’t abruptly run out of ideas.
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A story about angst: Part 4
December 14, 2005 on 6:35 pm | In Kumara | 2 Comments | Sicopath
Dear friends,
I never knew your dreams. You’d never tell them to me and you never told me how often you’d had them. But to look back this now, I think, “perhaps, it was a good thing?”
But this one thing, I could never have imagined existing. These ill thoughts, of course; in my paranoia I’d always suspected, but nearing the end of my life, ignorance and blissfully trusting that it wasn’t possible was the only way I could get by.
This nightmare was one of me. Projected against the flat shadow of a wall, but shadows have dimension. It was one of me, standing atop a bridge. Shadowy me pointed at me and my spine froze solidly. And as I looked on, I watched that image of myself standing and pointing. Then its arms fell off: leaving a trail of blood as the shadowy appendages fell towards the earth, then it’s torso toppled of the sides: head, shoulders and all, falling off the side of the bridge, careening towards oblivion.
Few people knew me well enough to impose a death wish, but certainly, this nightmare belongs to someone who knew me.
A person would never know true disgust until they witness the subconscious malice of their most trusted people. Compelled, I turned away. And behind me, I saw my own nightmare again, thinking carefully; I wondered… Is this grim vision of a girl someone I’d known? No. I did not recognise her at all, the bloody sequence of this hooded girl disembowelling herself with telekinesis… Maybe I was too angry. And this is the product of my non-directed rage. If I turned around, I’d see the product of somebody’s directed rage.
So here it was… Trapped between nightmares in this world beyond life. Where would I even begin looking for the answers I hungered for?
Will create more angst when I have angst that needs to be created and this sentence didn’t make sense to me either.
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A story about angst: Part 3
December 13, 2005 on 4:35 am | In Kumara | 3 Comments | Sicopath
Dear friends,
I met my nightmare in the darkness of dead-sight. That being the place beyond corporeal existence, where images of the dead congregate and make themselves known to one another.
In those eternal shadows I spy a girl, no older than 12 years and suspended in hues of black and grey and white. It doesn’t take long for my nightmare to confirm itself as mine; dropping to her knees, her stomach cuts itself open untouched between the flowing cloaked neck of a dark hood. If I hold my gaze I can witness the poor girl, bleeding to death: a crescendo to a twisted, nightmarish symphony in black and grey. When I look away and look back, she returns to normal and the sequence repeats itself. It was a switch to make my stomach crawl, a sight designed for myself only, which I couldn’t possibly tear myself away from permanently.
Nightmares are nightmares and nightmares are memories. Nightmares are nightmares are memories. The meaning to that sight I beheld in repetition was never known fully to me, except that when I had that vision in life; a person close to me died shortly after. Being now dead myself, it almost seemed appropriate to view that nightmare now; what person could possibly be as close to me as I am to myself?
Without a voice, I tried to yell…
And then I ran, desperate to leave the nightmare behind. Although: just as man cannot be without memories, man cannot be without nightmares. Running from one nightmare lends itself simply to allow me to find a new one. Or more appropriately: an old one. One, which I’d borrow from someone both my worst enemy and my closest friend…
Will likely be continued.
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A story about angst: Part 2
December 12, 2005 on 5:48 pm | In Kumara | 8 Comments | Sicopath
Dear friends,
I’ve discovered that nightmares are real. I see them with what constitutes my eyes; violent instruments of hate, of fright and of all kinds of ill sentiment. They lurk in the darkness between pools of light, travelling towards vacant minds. Where souls are the remnants of dead humans, nightmares are the remnant of buried hopes, dreams and imaginations.
I see the hateful objects prop themselves up in the shadow. Shadows not dissipating, as through ethereal eyes: the night never ends.
Fearful times abound and I steel my nerves; convincing myself that nothing can hurt me any longer, now that I’ve come to occupy the other side. But physical memories never really leave you, despite having no physical self to anchor your feelings; hence, in death, fear hasn’t changed. Death is no longer death, but nightmares remain nightmares.
Grim thoughts emanate from every dark corner like a thick, sticky fog invading my sight. Having seen so many anonymous nightmares already, seemingly expanding the full stretch of all deceased imaginations, it surprised me very much to see one of my own.
My sight pierced the shadows while the nightmare pierced the air around my gut. I recognised her immediately…
Might be continued.
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A story about angst: Part 1
December 12, 2005 on 3:00 pm | In Kumara | 5 Comments | Sicopath
Dear friends,
I regret to inform you all that I have died. The corporeal world has nothing left for me to discover, as I’ve discovered that every possible point of approach leads to failure.
It has been said that the purpose of a future is to escape your past, but the past has been greater than the present. To remain would be to chain myself to an endlessly propagating misery; hence I’ve chosen to escape my future.
The crossing was gentle; I went with much pain. Spirits now surround me; they’re everywhere. Souls do exist and the ones remaining are great in number, resisting the call of the great beyond. I hear the calls myself, ancestors beckoning to me and crying out not the name I’d been given, but the one I wished to have. The one I hold in my ethereal heart; “Picah.”
Picah now resists the pull of the world beyond this one; I choose to remain much the same as the restless souls that haunt my ghostly vision. I cannot leave until I fully understand my former misery; as a ghost I will explore the world that until now has been hidden from me.
Presently I wander the streets, looking for answers. Deep inside, I hope my misery was well deserved. If I could find it in my heart to hate all of you, then this crossing would have been worthwhile…
to be continued if I can be bothered continuing it without resorting to tasteless references which make it read like a piece of shit.
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