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The Writer - Abstract Piece
In a field of purple I run with decadent anticipation to the pool. I am not looking to swim, but to bury my body with the fish sporting light bulbs at the bottom of the ocean. This is not the world, and nor has it ever been. It is my world, and a world for a variety of others. The word variety, I think, is not inappropriately placed; but what are writers but a box of ideas?
I’ve always loved the idea of nirvana. And written quite unsuccessfully regarding it’s heightened sense of tranquility and ecstacy far more than once or twice, I have amassed a haughty collection. I might show you if there is time, but I am doubtful of that. Death is a lengthy process.
Step one: Remove your clothes. Death is birth, and you weren’t born with a frilly shirt and stretched pair of leather pants, were you? However, the simple act of removing one’s clothes will not successfully bring this step to an end. Now you must remove the layers of baggage and reasoning you’ve coated yourself in. I remember making popcorn a long time ago, I poured, coated it with caramel, thinking it might sweeten the taste. Ameliorate the experience; I’ve come to find I like popcorn with only the slightest of salt sprinkled within the crevices and even less than that coating it’s puffy shell.
Once you’ve extracted boyfriend #2 and marriage #3 out of your being and discarded the influence they hold over you; you can imagine up a garbage can, make it green. I like green. I picked this up when reading a brochure at a Buddhist temple I visited and to which I attracted an unwelcome cloud of press. And place them neatly away; fold them. Dealing with them meticulously will bring closure. Closure is not the most desirable in this case; but most writers cannot deal with the raw motion of things.
After all...
We use words to hide from our fears.
Step 2: Please continue and peruse, there is not far to go. In my experience, I’ve found that saying goodbye is probably best. There is no coming back, but there is going on. Forever on.
I was once asked whether I had killed a man, I had stumbled before answering. I’m sure, through some aspect of my writing, that I’ve crushed the dynamics of one’s life. As a writer, this makes me incredulously overjoyed and the laughter almost spills like a sewer overflowing. My head grows disproportionate to my skill and I am augmented. As a human, I am surely distressed by the pain I’ve caused. In death, I shall bring an end to all of this.
I have said goodbye to those I have destroyed. I have exposed the coward I am, I cannot address you. I must write to you. I Must.
I am not a Buddhist, I am not a Hindu nor a Pantheist. I have struggled with religion; yet I have discovered it to be the confine of the mind. Which strangles it; restricting the ability of the imagination to wander and nest.
Step three: Overcoming the fear of death is not the most simplest of acts. I remember hearing my mother draw and release those final few breaths before a rapidly growing population of malignant cells overtook her. Her chest would rattle; not wheeze. And she would say nothing; maybe she could not say anything at all; on her face was plastered the most disturbing glare I have seen or written of. I am horrified of what she saw.
You must grow a set of steel. Or, God forbid, diamonds. No-one can do what I am willing to; I am willing to admit to the truth; face the horrors. And attain perfection. For beyond the fear lies nought but serenity; not nothingness like those who are barren of spirituality will tell you. But serenity, whiteness. Blank.
That is the drive you shall assume.
Step four: Metamorphosis. Dying is not only rebirth, but change. I am a wretched man, I am ill. If I do not drink; or use; or shatter some innocent girl’s life; I cannot write. I cannot be who I am.
Once you are accustomed to the whiteness of what can only be referred to as Quietus, you will need a paintbrush. I recommend starting with all the colours of the world and universe, and slowly, painstakingly, paint what it is you aim to be.
I am to be Nirvana itself. I shall paint nothing.
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Thirteen pills, if my method is correct, and a plastic bag to act as a raincoat for your head, if you wish to speed up the process. Don’t think of it as death, the morbid end, the crushing defeat; that’s not the truth of the matter. This is life, a life far more perfect, and free of the ills of emotion, and happiness. Death is nirvana. I am making you whole.
*
I am Abraham. I am Moses. I am Jesus. I am Muhammad. I am Noah. I am Adam. I am Beginning. I am End. I am Nature. I am Death. I am Life. I am Everything. All at once; I can see the end; I must offer this advice to them all. Humanity does not see the well that befalls them; I must warn them. I am Light. I have no limbs, or mouth to speak to them. I am Lost. What is death but a curse!
*
I have finally made a mark. I have painted a tree. Maybe I can grow.
Last edited by diametric : 03-20-2008 at 08:33 PM.
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