0xc0495d62…0330sent to0xc0495d62…0330·#20,432,118·view on Etherscan
"Why on earth," we often say when we're befuddled by some act or something. Lately, that phrase has been following me, suffixed by the repetition "why on earth on earth." It's a rather commonplace thought that pretty much permeates our daily life in different variations. Probably because the fact of existence has become commonplace and not something that is enough to shrapnel us across the sky every time we focus on its fact or when consciousness dawns with sleep breaking.
What was that dream? Bits of it still in the eye, corners of your face. You rub it off, you wash your face. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think...well, sometimes you think nothing at all. Nothing hits you. The kettle weeps, you grab it by the handle, it singes you. That hurts, you say to yourself and grab it again. You pour managing the pain as if there's isn't a better way to go about this, without the heat's discomfort, the steam drawing your fate on your wrist. You want to feel. You no longer want to feel. The familiar pretending with you. For you. Wait for it. Any moment now. The kitchen turns traumatic, as if it were something that had humiliated you in your childhood. You can't tell. Far across the meadow, a pony trots along, carrying clitorises wrapped in a sackcloth. No one is with the pony. Where is the pony going? Whose clitorises are they? Why on earth on earth? They were not a result of mutilation, you tell yourself. Here it is now. The blizzard of desperation sweeping through you. The tears. You desperately want to live, you desperately want to die. Will you be there where I'm going to? You won't even remember knowing me. You'll know and remember the haunting love. That's all the feeling of having lived before is, being haunted by the love of another life, unable to find the source of it. The colony of empty mirrors asking for the image to be returned, your faithless image, your pristine abandonment that has made all the rivers, lakes, and mountains, seas and snow on this earth. Return it, the colony says. The figure on the ceiling filling up the syringe with tears, staring at it for a second like it's a cross, then tapping on her arm for a vein, pushing the needle in. Are we done yet? Not a chance. Cold, cold ceramic slab. Intense nothing being julienned on it, hand and knife too quick to tell if you had decided a lot time ago. Had you? You will regret this. You will not know the regret. What have you not regretted? Should we try waking up again and return to plucking fistfuls of wild stipa? The demon of continuity on each leaf-tip, you will continue, this will continue, embrace what you can never brace for, just keep the body in that posture, locked knees, head down, the endless crash is your shrine. Circle it. Keep circling it. The strangest thing, wad of money in a gull's beak. And who put a sea under my elbow?
Why on earth on earth do we have to get better? Why on earth on earth on earth do we have this? You, me, the ceramic motherhood also weeping, dampening the floor. Stop why. Start what where the finishing line dissolves on your spine. Are you following? Are you? When the gull's neck snaps, then what? And how will the gull snap its own neck? This is what we're here to find out, we're very close, I can smell the shit on its feathers. Return the colony what they're asking for. Return them the image, the pony is now at the door. It is not here for you. It is here for itself, to tell you of endless births, resurrections, the clitorises beating like embers through the sackcloth. This is a kind of annihilation and injustice, you say. I am a pony, the pony says. And what about it, I say. You were about to do something, the pony replies. Now you will do something else. And what am I going to do? It's not one gull. It's several. And what about them? Their migration. ? Now you will do something else, what you were anyway going to do. I have to now go and make some gods. Their migration. Now you watch what you do. There are several. Soon.
Soon.