Obituaries: Heart

[Sepia]

We weep in silence as we dream. Our dreams are flooded with the memories of the perfect, the people and the world we have built and met. Forget the tingling sensation that there is something more out there, forget the signs and forget the silent hope, a dagger of finest damascus forever embedded in your spine. Do not try to see the gods as real and do not think there is a calling, it is only your heart yearning for what it hasn't been given lately. Every night we weep as we dream of it, floating around in an orbit but the radio is silent even though we are screaming but we are only an image, a mirage, a fata morgana and from these slivers do we every day wake up to construct our reality.

There is only the metaphor, the ragged edge of communication, the tool to bring both gods and illusions alive. Do you see icarus there, climbing? Don't you think he looks sorta like harry potter? Have you read the seven stories and have you at times woven them into your life, have you read enough philip k dick to realize that rome is always superimposed over la and do you truly believe that there are only seven stories? What will happen once you break the fourth wall? Will it all come tumbling down or are you too late for work already

the clock ticking as you're on the bus and today is an important day but you took the bus after the one you should have taken and sweat is on your forehead and you can feel the windbreaker building up static, you know you could have walked faster and it just feels like the heart of the world is dying because we fucked it too hard, as we in our icarian fashion sought to drink the wisdom of the sun but found rather the asshole of reality and in our desire to be fulfilled we cracked its rectum and the ancient cock, the obelisk and phallos penetrated the heart of us all and we felt sick

sick to our stomachs like when you feel something more important the the sum of our beings is shattered, something bigger than us dies or simply isn't born, an initiation that never ends ends and the rules of the game change and we see these buildings with new eyes and we are something more for a short second before we are reminded that the illusion that keeps us alive is the same that keeps us chained

[Honey]

Have I told you lately how much I love your writing? 

You have both freed & captured the absurdity of life here. 

Icarus was a fool & so am I & so is anyone who thinks they can understand any of this. 

[Cramulus]

and mittens and mittens again


Icarus is a great image here,

and I particularly love the way the second paragraph crashes into the third paragraph

and then the fourth crashes into nothing at all

[Honey]

Brought to mind & heart Foucault:

Further explanation:

The inhabitants of Foucault's limbo of non-identity are similarly unaware of their privation. Insofar as one renounces the interest in the authenticity of one's identity and the techniques of its actualisation, the promise of diagrammatic liberation begins to be received with a mild and somewhat uncomprehending amusement.  Isn't the very discourse on identity, in all its varieties, beguilingly strange in its promise to deliver to the subject the truth of his individuality by subjecting him to the knowledge that is entirely alien to him or, conversely, tirelessly teaching him what he is presupposed to already know? Isn't there something ludicrous in the effort to extract the truth of being from the depths of subjective interiority by filling these very depths with a plethora of discursive constructions? Isn't the very notion of identity little more than an amusing artefact, which stops being amusing when one's entire existence becomes subjected to it, when it brands and penetrates one's very being?

1 word.  Yes.

I liked how you expressed this feeling.

[navkat]

Thank you thank you thank you for these tonight.

I wish I knew you in person.

[The Wizard]

The combination of intense amounts of caffiene, lack of sleep, and your writing is fascinating. Keep writing these.