Dialogues with the Self

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I have espoused an existential nihilist explication of the self.

Submitted: March 25, 2016

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Submitted: March 25, 2016

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There’s an incessant silence, a silence which is a mad mob of thoughts. Passion lives in the body like the shattered images of stained glass. I am always pondering who to think, what to think and why to think? Everywhere I am being bitten by poisonous vipers but I suffer the pain in silence and yet those fangs do not leave me to die. I search for a meaning, a value, a virtue. These are all trash created by fake religions and Gods. Gods empty their books for humans to die. I have to defecate their books, shallow them, their meaningless heavens and hells. Existence you have a frozen a hell to the quest for my search for meaning in life. I am a wounded beast. I have no scroll to open, no divine hymn to chant, no miracle to change water into wine. In my search for meaning, I have reached ground zero. I am a nihilist confronted by a chaotic and senseless universe. Yes I am Camus’ Sisyphus rolling the burden of the boulder up the hill and by the sadistic, purposeless, chaotic God, the chance of happening in an experience rolls it down. I look at myself with temperamental hatred. I feel ashamed and aghast at my own writing. I can’t stop writing. I am forced to write. Pity, you are a bastard who wrings my neck. I am trying to find spaces in literature left by great writers. I am deformed and crippled when I don’t find the chance of a lucky happening. No matter what efforts I make, they all tumble down like an avalanche. Where can I leave myself to make meaning of life? I am sitting down to write. Death overcomes me. My pen is a coffin carrying me. I am prisoner of my own thoughts. Mystery and misery, you are a coward, a bastard who entrenches myself and leaves me in a noisy state of confusion. Where am I? Where is my being? The scriptures are full of lies betraying the self to a deity. Yes, I live in a hell of existence, parchment of sin. My skin is precious and anticipates Dionysian ecstasy. When you left me, I died painfully. What is the world to me, a chaotic sadist who makes me down on my knees to beg for an existence? I am a being when I write; my sores are excavated; my ruins are discovered. The letters become precious signs of language that I create. Why is meaning of love so far away from me? Every day I live in contemplative anxiety to be close to it. Why are space, money and time restricting my being? My self is a whore that is tired by overwork. God, you senseless beast, you don’t have to forgive me, just forget me. I have not gained the world nor lost my soul. I am consoled by Philosophy. Yes, I become a stoic brick, a longing hedonist, and a compromising sinner. You have burnt your theology. You fiend enemy God, you have killed language. You possess language and make the meaning of being a death. Yes, like Nietzsche affirmed, I have to become the Ubermensch. Yes, I am a nihilist, I overcome suicide by authenticating my existence. My soul is killed in the drought of the desert. Soul, you have too many taboos, barriers, obstacles built by the edifice of religion. When I try to exercise a choice, my meaning is already killed by chance. Yes, l live in the meaning of creative suicide. I have to be creative to the chaos and senseless virtue that destiny offers. Where I am I now? I wish I could have found a true widow who needs the meaning of love. I can’t carry meaning to the grave. I have to write in the ritual of killing. Burnt incense, you are a whore that fornicates. God of Judaism and Islam, why do you want to be absolute and authoritarian? When I die I am proud to go to hell if there be a place. Blood is blood, how can it be a ritual for cleansing forgiveness. Even though you resurrected, Nietzsche killed you: ‘God is dead.’ What the fuck is happening to my feelings. Yes, I live in Kafka’s trail of dreary angst. God why don’t you slit my throat? I wonder why all my prophetic dreams turn out to be abysmal whish fulfilling ones. How can love overcome, when there is no love? Meditate? What the fucking peace can you overcome? You strain your body into mental oblivion. My youth was a new born flower, my middle age the cackle of a haggard witch. Tired, go fucking kill someone. I can’t, I am so fucking humane. When will the liberal touch add a joy of a blossomed garden in the meaning of being in life? God, an irony I keep forgiving you all the time. Yes, I should be kind to myself. Go easy man. There’s a lot more to go on in life. Existentialism makes me vacillate between affirmation and negation. Angst is a terrible wound. I am irritated. I grind my teeth in existential agony. I am tired of being a slum, being dominated by women who want to be matriarchs. Torment is a machine gun raining bullets on me. I live in a democracy slapped by a death penalty. Agitation plagues my words like cholera. I am wounded by the sin of not being a becoming. Why have I left myself to be wounded and tormented? I am encountering the brutality of being. I look at myself, I am disgusted. Am I a dodo, out of place in time? Memory becomes chunks of a bicep making the present delusional. Gather my mind in a heap and litter it in the dustbin. Consciousness, you are hypocritical grandeur for religions to tempt and exploit. Have I no feelings any more. I don’t deserve death when I am living, but my life is a haunting death. I have to write and write and I am a nihilist. There’s a philosophical suicide. There’s no death but only authentication.


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