Within these pages you will find the echoes of my scream. It has been silenced by popular culture, by the media, by my own masochistic inability to reveal the truth. It is cowed by unpopularity, by the repression of intellectualism propagated in our society. I know very little of sex, drugs, little flashy gizmos or the latest clothing trends. I know very little of the world I live in. This is not my time, and likewise, it is not the time for my scream to be heard. Its only remnants are the echoes that follow, diminished and yet diminishing, as its soul withers and dies, and likewise, mine. It is my final throes that you have stumbled upon while searching for a distraction from your eternal layover. In time, your flight will depart, the movie will start, your ears will pop, and you’ll hardly even notice the aneurysm in your distracted brain.
Or else you’ve taken note already that this is not what you’ve expected. The words, instead of flying through your cerebellum so fast they scorch a path for others to follow silently, have taken seed and made some sense, morbid as they may be, and found root in a part of you that doesn’t like to be touched. You’ve stood in long lines and felt the sweat drip down the inside of your arms and cool you to the point of shivering, and you’ve felt your body expand or contract upon entering a building that was of an extremely different temperature than the environment that you just left. There is a little piece of you that can’t bear to read, and for that reason you are driven to continue, to thrust yourself into this world I wish to create and destroy, hopefully while you’re still in it. You know it’s mad, like any harebrained plan to save the world, a girl, the fuzzy dog or your sense of self. And thus you know that I’m mad myself, and that is why you’ll continue reading.
You may be wondering, what exactly is my expertise that I should be allowed to torture and torment, expose the worlds beneath flesh and stones and upholstery. What is it that allows me to treat such subjects as if they were all the same, all one subject, all one meaning. It is nothing but a grandiose sense of my own entitlement to your time, and the best part is, I know that if you’ve allowed this much of it to me already, I’ve got it all until I’ve finished. Now, I should share a warning. At the end, you’ll find I’ve actually said nothing at all, and you’ll hate me for it. At least, I’m hoping you will. Novelty, in my generation, will be the demented ramblings and random splatterings of madmen.
Artists are notorious for pushing the limits of censorship. They revel in revealing the rest of the world beyond what might be called reality. Beware the ides of man, when there will be nothing left censored, and we begin our slow change back into animals. We are close to cresting this parabola. I do not wish to call myself an artist; I am merely a cynic, and a morbid one at that. Art has reached a level consistent with the consumeristic needs of the modern society. It is produced and promoted in a massive way. Certainly, this is because there are massive needs for art. The art that is produced, therefore, does not promise to live long in the public domain. It is demanded of it that it fade away and be replaced by the next fad or period. I do not wish to take away from artists, either. They are important, and there are those that have substantial messages. I only present the truth which art attempts to overcome. These are lost words, amidst lost paper. I understand that I alienate my only sympathetic ears. And yet I don’t care. These thoughts, spread upon my page like butter on overdone toast, cannot begin to create sympathies, and will leave us hungry in the end. They are merely samples of sustenance, they are not filling. The schism will spread, the void will expand. And I, lost behind my criticism, will find the future very much like the past. For the moment, though, I only wish to make existence seem a bit more viscous, so that it drips away more slowly.
This is an excursion of infinite axes. I am searching for the meat of the chestnut, while we live precariously atop its spines. We leap from each to each on calloused feet, avoiding the drop that seems more painful than it could really be. We bound along, trying to think of things which float, trying to make ourselves light, unburdened. We strive to be the dust motes in a shaft of light, inconsequential and drifting. We try, but fail, and are forced to become something just so we don’t become nothing. I am the very essence of these words. I scream into these pages because silence is my death. And the echoes will be my epitaph. I hope I can at least be excused in my ramblings for reasons of diminishing sanity. I am caught up like the way the wind catches in a satellite dish and mourns its impediment. Have I already died too many times not to die again? I feel like a twist in somebody else’s plan, or like a child waiting to be entertained. The days spread before me under the screeching of gulls, curling up and away like cigarette smoke, twisting, unknown, gone. Inside this exoskeleton, I am confined, cloistered, crumpled. My exoskeleton is obsolete.
I was six, once, and rejoiced at the world under stones. Such devilment, such a twist of limbs and segments. Under a towering canopy, sitting on sun dappled soil, I’d strike it rich in odd commodities. Untouchable centipedes, armored pill bugs, coiled millipedes, the erratic patterns of ant passages, all revealed in a simple feat of strength. My backyard was larger than the galaxy, and I the intrepid explorer, armed only with a short stick and insatiable curiosity. I wondered why these things weren’t amazing to those around me. I still wonder that.