Personal writings: 2004-06-22
I was probably having a bad day. The day after my birthday, curiously. I still have days like this.
Anti-social
I. You. Them. Us.
Society is … the average of all the people you know. It is the melange of all the media you ingest. It is the virus in your computer, and in your blood, and in your brain.
I am angry at a world of brainless groping and eating, a blob of gelatinous acid dissolving all in its path. I am disgusted. I am disgust. My disgust eats me. My anger dissolves me. I become that which I hate, and it’s victim, also. We absorb one another.
I am anger. I am resentment. I am hatred. Long have I denied my true feelings, though at times they have seeped out, in outlandish dreams of destruction and annihilation. The world would not be missed, but I would enjoy seeing it go, or some part of it. Burn the world, and maybe it will be re-born.
Society is the belief in its own perpetuation. Society, culture, the memetic force, the emulsifier, the meat grinder, the goose liver bursting with lies.
I am livid. I am a sharpened blade. I must draw blood ere I am sheathed again. My appetite must be fed, my lust satisfied, my vengeance delivered to those who have woken me from foggy dreams. I am half-mad. I am half full.
I would bore them. I would bore into them, tunnel under them, plant my mines and retreat before scattering them.
Hate hate hate hate hate. Five times I name thee. Five times I summon thee. Five times I direct thee. Their bodies are not their own; claim them as your prize.
My mind is red mist. My eyes are caked with red dust. The Arean spirit awakens me, the spear of God pierces me. I am no longer a messenger, I have been conscripted to war against the forces of history. History is on the side of death. We are mad with battle lust. We are all on the side of death. Great harvests shall he reap.
It’s all foolishness, a disease of the brain, a suicidal thought of culture itself. I am but a mutation, a deformity, a variation meant to check the status quo. I am in the grip of a madness, I am mad with fear, claustrophobia, the world is a cramped space full of the screams of other people. There is only one escape and it’s a coward’s way.
Hate. Vile hate. Gleaming hate. Poisonous, dripping, smoking hate. Burning hate. Hatred so pure, so clean, so absolute as to be mathematical. Precise hate. Calibrated hate. The epsilon of hate so small it must have been traced by God himself in preparation of the end times. I am the referent of hate. The archetype. The mold and the master.
Repetition is magic. Naming is power. I name the thousand names of hate and they are all my name. I am a sword sent to cleave the soft flesh of man. The heat of my passing will sear the wounds and no blood will spill. They will know nothingness feeling nothing. I will give it to them.
Beyond the edge of the universe awaits a power. It is the cold without temperature, the hate without enemy, the blindness without dark. It is the ever-widening maw of eternal vacancy, an infinite altar upon which all existence lies in sacrifice. The bloody corpse of the universe will be splayed across it, infinitely thin, and never reach its edges.
The nameless power will consume everything, the spirit of growth and the demon of hate too, they will be germs on its black teeth. It is the end even of endings.
I am tired. I am a spent vessel. My revelation is sterile. The all is nought.