The surge of propulsion of energy swirling past me; i can feel it grazing my skin, peeling it off one small dead cell at a time. this kill your idols bullshit simply wont cut it: only epic music please. hmmm... led zeppelin.... it will work for what i need.
with all of this energy, this life, this brazen and supposed omnipotence, there's a cold and dying embrace that's gripping my eyeballs right through to the back of my skull. what the fuck is that? because it's gripping my eyeballs, my eyelids are peeled back, far, far away from each other; red blood vessels on white globes. a scene from a clockwork orange comes to mind.
there's the gut to consider, too. he's just pissed. pretty much, he and i have stopped talking. there was a bit there when we stilled lived together and were constantly at each other's throats, but now that we've distanced ourselves... suffice it to say we're both "comfortable." but tonight... in this state... he's back in town for the weekend and he is one angry motherfucker and he isn't the least bit shy about showing it.
sometimes i worry about what effects this mania might be having on my body, but that passes... because then i remember that i am pure energy and i quite simply do not care.
scratch that. i am incapable of caring. there's just no time to be wasted pissing away, worrying about the physical condition, which, as i've learned, is just an illusion. didn't you catch that? it was in today's classifieds:
HEY! DIDN'T YOU KNOW THAT THE PHYSICAL CONDITION IS JUST AN ILLUSION? IT'S TRUE! ENJOY YOUR LIFE NOW! :-)
apparently the truly enlightened don't have much of an ad budget.
so, with that in mind, all of the above is fluff. *poof!* gone, like so much waste and dirt up into the vacuum bag. it is a good analogy because the physical condition and its attributes are not [i]gone[/i], they are only removed to a place that does not count. if you wanted to move waste and dirt to a place that they do not count, you would put them in a bag, yes? that way, you're not stepping all over them when you're barefoot, in the kitchen, grabbing that last cruddy and staled muffin you've been passing off but have to eat now because it's 2 am and you're starving and exhausted.
sorry, bit of a tangent, but i think the point still stands. there is weariness attached to this power, but to ignore the fatigue, the sheer immensity and consciousness of this power is divine. that is to say, to be insane and to know one is insane but to also ignore that fact is to be supreme.
so, this is how god feels on a good day.
of course there is a price i must pay. nothing is free. there are no free lunches. fuck the golf club membership. newton had it quantified with his laws of motion, but he was only doing just that: quantifying. for every action there is an opposing and opposite reaction is an affirmation of the tao, the way, the order of things. it explains manic-depression itself: unbelievably brilliant highs coupled with shatteringly mindnumbing lows. every happiness has its tear, ever laugh has its scorn, every passionate kiss has its passionate punch.
every orgasm ends in death.
balance. equilibrim. so when newton said that everything has to balance out, he was demonstrating ancient chinese wisdom. very useful.
so has it come to this? is there a mortality to the infinite? i think there must be. for if i am truly pure energy, and if i must feel this weariness, then surely the infinite must feel the weight of it all. that brings me another thought: all. pure energy is all. it is everything... it encompasses and consumes and simply exists to be all and contain all, all at the same time. so this weight i'm feeling, if i am to be pure energy and energy is all, where is this weight i'm feeling coming from, this weariness? if i am all, what is pressing me down?
it is time. that crushing, horrifying, blinding and excellently crafted executioner of the infinite: time. if the universe were a dove, whisping amongst the clouds and fluttering in expectation of the future its wings, soft and perfect in its own flawed, beautiful way, then time would be the wolf with superb jaws of iron that rips the head from the dove. when its time has come. this analogy is near-perfect because the wolf does not kill out of hate, or fear or anger or lust, it kills for life. it kills because killing is what it does. the blood flows because it must... inside or out, blood does what blood does: it flows. red.
my dove soars today, higher than you could even dream, higher than what you know to be high. it has silver feathers and a beak of perfect silver. it knows no bounds, be they terrestrial or mortal. but far, far below, this dove still casts a deep shadow, toward the earth upon which the hungry fangs of a desperate wolf trods, eternally, in misery.
The "Sick" Nietzsche, c. 1899
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