Anthology of the Self - Entry II-III
Fuck my Feels / Let us be Fractals
A Traumatized Duology
[Content Warning: Essay written as Therapy. Themes of Existential Crises, Suicide, Extinction, ED, Dysphoria, Ego-Death and Body Horror. Read at your own discretion. Probably the darkest thing I've ever written. If any of the prior currently effect you, I recommend you don't read further. This is my interaction with these things while coming to the wrong conclusion. This piece does not welcome any of you, yet I sincerely feel it's the best thing I've written up to this point. Thanks for seeing me.]
Part 1: Fuck my Feels
Nostalgia provides such unearned catharsis, an intoxicating reminiscence that snuffs the present in its enthralling wiles. Neuron pathways bind the present self in such an overwhelming disgust for a lack
of presence in a time that no longer is. Drowning in dead selves, despairing and revolting the present, even as the present supercedes all that was by astronomical factors. Or does it?
Are these hedonic feedback
loops really the height, where hygiene slips out of my control in favour of optical dopamine, fattened and softened off the infinitely supplied treats our unfettered social exposure provides? Community is both absent
and suffocatingly large, the intangible quantity of souls fill bellies and hearts, lurch the soul with their aspirations and nostalgias. It’s a constant treadmill where one is stuck chasing other people’s childhoods.
Perhaps the bold move onto the teen years, the young adult years, but the recapturing of youth in isolation is so endless in its scope. Checkpoints of brevity and development of skills turn these activities passive
and utterly accomplishable.
Yet, the brain only gets cased in fat. It does not burn in new paths but wastes land on opulent hedonic properties that are unproductive to the human condition and jump ship just as quickly
as they ooze themselves in between the wrinkles and folds of our grey matter. We are so tired, so ready to liquidate volition in exchange for mental noise and the seizure of thoughtonomy.
I’m incredibly sick, incredibly
imprisoned in what was and wanting, oh utterly wanting to become what I no longer am or allow myself to be. Social barriers, no, I’ve terrified myself into a corner. Fearmongered into submission while gawking at those
more apparent victims. Fearmongered into formulaic formlessness, uncharacteristic expression beyond fresh and fickle flesh that facades my full flora of fervor.
I want to puke my flesh off, to pick it off like an insect
or a scab. I want to fade away like scratched dandruff until all that remains is a floating ocular nervous system. Let my meat melt away into a puddle for the starving to drink from. Turn me into cutlets so my happy skeleton
can watch as my succulence breeds delicious katsu for the birds.
Endless oppression and servitude to the flesh is the guiding principle of each and every primate life, no matter the contents of the skull. We gorge, sleep,
sip, slurp, fuck, we lust, lurch, love, bleed, heal, piss, shit, leak and succumb out of carnal necessity. There is no choice to disobey without loss of function. The flesh must be fattened and lubed, loaf and decompress.
It’s a constant cycle of ceaseless maintenance for the continual allowance of more menial action and consumption that is so utterly joyless. No degree of idleness halts the hunger of form. We endlessly lose ourselves and our
consciousness to the gluttonies and greeds of the flesh’s inclinations, spiral under the words and losses of other flesh. We obsess over flesh, see only flesh, are tortured by flesh and suffer by our flesh. Flesh is an
agonizing contradiction.
I am disgusted with it all, I wish to discard it now, please. How much for a phantom arm? A phantom leg? A desexualized miasma of the senses. Let me spit until my weight is that of helium.
Let me burn this useless oil evolution decided I needed to carry around, let it burn in beautiful hues in a warming lamp. Let me open a gash and find an abundance of spermaceti and warm wax has mysteriously taken the
place of the many clockwork organs on which my continued sensations rests upon. Let me play with it and form candles from my innards, put it in a bowl that I can sip on like a warm chowder on a biting winter day. Let it fall
through me. Let all this biomatter I stuff myself with fall through me as if my innards were ectoplasm. Let my form fall off the bone like a well-cooked plate of ribs. Rid me of my ape-shaped pigness. Let me be floating
thoughts; horny, thirsty floating thoughts that fuck on eachothers philosophies and soak in a pristine pool tiled with aquamarines and pearls. Let this opulent pool in which I drink from and gracefully slither through like
a spectral dolphin, like a jellyfish without plasticity and destructibility, made of veils of steam and vapours. Free my mind from this clockwork heart and sausage-cased puppet, headaches and stuffy noses, let it terminate
itself into oblivion out of sheer will when it decides it’s done.
Disincentivize a world where the failure of hearts cased in fats, and betrayals of flesh through lumps and bumps suffocates a beautiful tangible accessible
self. Do not lose the self to anything but the self. Let love live, let life exist, not for anything but endless, boundless passion of art and experience undetermined by capital and social pressures. Stimulate the nerves
without consequence of the flesh.
Stuff me with carcinogens until all that’s left after the tumours walk away is the aurora borealis of lit-up nerves, the glory of pure sensory delight. Let the nerves float and reform
and constantly feel themselves. Feeling is divine, feeling is sublime. Emotion is the most controlled uncontrollable, pure beauty through psychological diversity and unalikeness.
Emotion is so fucking beautiful, man
My heart is wrought with feel, just let me feel everything all at once. Bombard me until a moan of resonance, a pure satisfactory release is unleashed, rippling through the blood until tears spill, piss trickles and skin
folds. A state of perpetual feels, drowning in the vibes of the glory of life, the cochleal pleasures and colour palettes and petite delights of existence, the little souvenirs of a terrible year, that arise from a lack
of fleshly suppression. Perpetual death of form is what feeds the beast. Erase and rewind. Self-destruct until you become what you were without what you didn’t want. Shed the dead skin cells that injected poisons into your
mind, the evil little things that are out for your fleshly wants, your desired form, replace them with those plump with beautiful things, your heart on the wall, your feels in dissatisfaction, your emotions in the dumps
as love is so fucking distant. Let love happen. Let connection feel so real and so constant. From love stems such potent unbridled feels. The touching of flesh as I melt into you, unbecoming my carnal self into a carnal
thing that exists outside us both.
We fuck into unity, love into resonant soul, like the rumblings in the belly of an acoustic guitar being tickled by the fingers of a beautifully skilled auteur. Let my heart rumble like
the notes of love. Fuck my feels, not my flesh. Split my cerebral hemispheres with thine razor-steel blade. Make my brain your warming sheath. Feel the tingle of my electric kinetic blazing thoughts as they zap the nerves,
fuck the spectral soul of intelligence. Love my kinetic matter as it tingles into beautiful philosophy, christmas lights patterned after argyle mathematics and angular curvatures. Fuck my reading books on a warm breezy day,
fuck my long walks down a foggy coastal city, fuck my idyllic reveries, my cotton-candy dreams and feel the nerves tingle with the pleasure they give me. Fuck my brain until it splits in half like an apple cracked into two,
it’s sweet flesh both cool and crispy as you sink your lovely white teeth in. Taste the sweetness of my mind, feel our closeness as you swallow my delight. Feel my experience and emotions pass down your esophagus. Consume
my exuberant love like the soft flesh of a peach no longer able to shield the oyster pearl at its core.
The brain will sing its final orchestra, soaking up the semen seeded with the most profound sperm, seeded with pure
sensory luster and intellectual fluorescence. It’s hot to touch, steaming, each wrinkle like a sterile neon cyberpunk alleyway flooded with milky ooze, exuding carnal and social life within its unobservable patterns and
god-carved ruptures. Peel back the flesh and witness the cavalcade of a sensory overload as neurons burn pleasures and thousands of unlabelled emotions bloom into being and endlessly flick their own fulcrum, never bleeding
out or discarding the absolute delight of the warm blanket womb-like experience that arises when mind is capable of if the pains of our pink paunchy prison simply turned to a bloody slime beneath an unsheathed spectral self.
I pray death be akin to this fucking. The creamy black milk of abyss and oblivion seep into my soul to create a beautiful sensory sleep. Dreams being fucked by eternal vanishing, the absolute pleasure of not having anything
to ever worry about or do again, having seen all you were meant to see, as all those glorious thoughts you’ve pent-up unleash themselves in a resplendent display of rainbow hues and ribbons performing their last in the stage
of endless ebony fluid that is the other side of consciousness. The black matter is sweet like tarry candy. It tastes of a sweetmilk, perfectly hydrating, with nutty hints of berries and caramel. The tasty sap of death is the
sweetest taste to ever coat your oral buds of spectral flesh, entombing them in gustatory comfort. No more thirst or hunger, just floating in the creamy sweetwater of semiotic ravens. I long to bask in these sweet fluids,
to melt away in them as a paint thinner, a chocolate on the tongue, until zen and bliss overtake all worldly frets and fears implanted through relentless barrages of worrywart talking heads and starving egalitarian idealists
trapped in perpetual frustration at their inability to manifest their dreamy landscapes and peaceful minds into reality. Fucking shame our moist little marble of verdures and clouds can’t take a dip in the black milk,
itself of fears and just float. Not to perish, but to free us from our flesh, so all the bright and loving souls can discard the barriers between their dreams and reality.
Let the collective hearts pour out into an ocean of love.
Let us play in the spermaceti and hold eachother and fuck eachother into a nervous system village of twinkling christmas lights that spell out the very heart of discovery that our reservations, taboos, contemptions, structures,
formulas and gatekeeping kept us from understanding for thousands of dustbound years. Let’s splash in the paint until human souls swirl into the most gleaning aesthetic canvas inconceivable to one single mind.
The stars will be our starting point to paint the sky gloriously furiously incandescent, so grossly beautiful that we puke out the hard to control outpourings of our heart and hormonal secretions of our emotions.
Let us spill out chemicals of beauty, pheromones of admiration and adornment.
Let us just live, feel and fuck eachothers heart out in the warm fluid teetering in form between the most pleasant dreams, loving bliss
and warm oblivion. Let us never thirst but only delight in the constancy of our satisfaction. Let us not hunger beyond a desire to continue soaking in the fluid and fucking eachothers feels. We’ll become like gaseous jellyfish,
perpetually stinging each other with our hedonic tendrils. Our mouths will be silent, our sloppy tongues will no longer roll around, muddling in saliva, their fat worm-likeness no longer writhing to form words that don’t
mean what they want to express. They’ll be no “faggots” and “freaks”, no “weirdos” and “creeps”. We’ll just love, fuck and understand without disgusting faces and bloated, corpulent writhing balloons we must drag around
and be deemed by.
We’ll speak in the languages of pleasures and feels, through vibrations in the blackmilk and the nuanced buzzing of tuning forks. We’ll fuck instead of convincing to believe, unbridled by the fears of
penetration, of hurting, of scaring, uncontrolled carnal desire or rape. All will be love, and love will be all. We will live in perpetual orgy of minds, our neuron paths extending each other into the grand thought.
The one thought. The mobius strip of absolute truth constructed from 8 billion heads worth of neurons. And sing so beautifully will the thought. A divine buzz unrestricted by the shape of the throat, the patterns learned to
speak, we will simply sing in the most beautiful voice imaginable, unshackled from preset pitch and default tones. No note will be out of our range, no melody too rigorous or strenuous.
And too will it dance. Not having to
drag around the flesh, not slowed down by the limited heart or the need for rest, we will dance most fervently, blazing movements through all directions that take the very shape of the vibrations of feel, drunk off the libations
of zeal.
Let’s fucking love, let’s fucking laugh, let’s bang and sing and dance and witness the beauty of the collective heart. Listen to it beat in perfect synchrony, with the rhythm of the night and the songs of the sun.
Let’s hold hands, have the deepest conversations and swim in a pool of serotonin and black milk.
Fuck these phallic metal obelisks that we dance around, fuck these institutions which mold our flesh like clay to their will,
make us drink and feast and argue ourselves into a depression. I just want to feel unattached good and life, not from paying for something, not from exploiting someone, not from having my heartstrings pulled by raping wrinkled
fingers. I want to sing my own song, dance my own dance, fuck my own thoughts and live my own dreams.
I want to live my fucking life and die my own death, not in service, not in pain or in oscillating flesh. I just want to be
happy, want everyone to be happy, but we keep condemning ourselves from it, keep judging each other, keep scaring the shit out of each other. Is it too much to ask we stop doing this? Stop feeding the news stream, the main
stream and any stream other than the trickles of Mother Earth and the treacle of love.
A toast to a life lived on raw volition. It takes guts, guts I wish I had, but tragically my entrails are filled with cowardly worms who
writhe every time they are threatened or go unfed, who punish me if I don’t obey their obscure, self-destructive asks. Let me cut these worms heads off, send my destruction complex to be sliced up under a guillotine like deli
meat.
Let me fuck my feels.
Part 2: Let us be Fractals
Why is it permissible that a calculus exists in my mind as to whether existence or non-existence is the more pleasurable, the more fulfilling outcome? Why must we all be so hurt, bruised and ravaged
by the mere point of existing-in-oneself? Worse yet of it all, why is all this pain sourced from the very species I live to appreciate, inspire and protect?
I’m not scared of life, I’m not scared of nature, I’m scared of society, of eyes, of unwanted flesh.
I want to protect life, to see it flourish, to see goodness and love trump all the conniving and hijacking and manipulative malice. It seems only suited that we fight for all of us, it seems only decent,
it seems even the most bottom-feeding nihilist would simply cower rather than to enact as much harm as the unthinking, the uncritical, the combative do.
The phallic pride, one might say, founded in the poisonous well of machismo, the obsession with order and gender and structures and labels by which all of us suffer yet all of us aid in dragging around its corpse
on a leash in one regard or another. We’re killing each other,
beating our fractal individuality into mere meat through a square-shaped hole, all emotions torn off as we squeeze ourselves through the formulating rusty grate. We’re cubes of meat carved from divine form, unseasoned
and unmarinated, mere chunks to place upon each other, mere sticks in a bundle, mere nothing, unreturnable to fractal innocence once.
I want to be a fractal. A smoking hot fractal with the sickest convergences in depth and width.
A vibrant eminent fractal that can swim and mix with other fractals like a fruity delicious cocktail of angles and gustatory delight. Yet I’m a chunk of meat, or at the very least a fractal with bites taken out of her and sanded
down edges. Every time I feel like I’m in the trenches with a fellow fractal, I always get that bloody taste in my mouth, a tinge of iron and flesh, that makes me want to vomit. No matter how much sugar coats a cockroach,
you’re inevitably going to reach that taste. The center of the meat lollipops we love to play with and collect and call friends. There’s an inescapable layer of rot indoctrinated to some extent into the moral core of our
character. No project grants perfect morality. It’s an impossible expectation.
Nonetheless, like a candle growing from a wick, I’ll keep bathing in the jacuzzi of syrup, growing denser than any avid licker of my meatiness could
ever permeate. Yet, isn’t that the worst fate of all, for at our core, we’re still just meat. And the deeper down the meat gets, the more it rots, the more its juices bleed out and corrode the innermost layers. Fires ought not be
contained, they must be extinguished. Yet at the end of the day, I can’t just stop being rotten meat, can I? I can’t just become sugar all the way down. No one can become sugar all the way down, except pure untainted fractals.
Most impermissible of it all is this complex we have. That we aren’t meat, that we’re angels with little glowing haloes lingering above our cranium, doting on us and sprinkling us with confetti, cinnamon and kisses.
News flash, mein engel, but your halo is made of meat, staining your pearl-coloured robes with meat, sweat and semen. You’ve been doused and marinated in sin and cogent coagulation of crimson crust longer than us all. No lord makes you pure,
no politics make you pure, no degree of bliss or innocence makes one pure. We all bear the curse of rot that we poison and coax others with, that we perpetuate from the very fundamental truths that we build language and function
on. We hate out of twisted love and love on the preconditioned foundation of something else’s hate. A divine, profound artistic resonance is underlied by all the putrid sludge one crosses paths which to earn that experience.
A best friend is only the best because others aren’t. A true love is only a lover because all the other compatible companions in life weren’t enough. To every favourite there is a least favourite.
It’s all one pernicious system, all one coin, this system of sugarcoating the meat, all in service of just forgetting the meat was there and never questioning why we became meat in the first place.
Seems the best a fella can do is actively resist the meat in a sisyphean manner, not to indulge in sugar but to reconstruct to the best of the memory and shape of the meat the form of the fractal.
It seems so utterly hopeless and is so utterly frowned upon and dejected by those still bound in the meat. Being a fractal is thankless, it bring the rot out of meat more than any other type of person,
it is utterly hopeless to be a fractal, but at least you can be happy.
Message me on Discord @boopleone if you need to talk. I love all of you.