Self-uncertainty in solitude
I don’t even know what I want. I don’t know what I want! I don’t know if I want to exterminate mankind, or if I want to give away my possessions and become a Buddhist monk, or if I want to walk over to my so-called friends’ apartments and tell them I despise them and everyone, or if I want never again to be unkind, or maybe I want to blow my brains out, or I want to be emperor of the world worshiped as a god, or I want to understand everything and die an instant later, or can it be I still want to love? I think I want to break a thousand women’s hearts—or rather make their lives wonderful by being my naturally kind and charming self and then suddenly one day abandon them and leave their lives in shambles—not because I hate women or anything or resent them but because it would confuse me. It would breed that delicious confusion that makes me remember I exist and is always incubating in my subconscious womb to explode periodically like warm semen spurting over your hand only to incubate some more in your testes and then spurt forth again like the messy confusion spilling around all over my mind and congealing in little stains on the written page and making me hate my existence my fucking existence like I hate fucking women with their smelly dishonesty and sloppy self-confusion and anal shopping-fixations and hideous shallowness which contrasts hatefully with my hideous selfish self-loving self-loathing which self-loves itself into sterile-smelling orgasm spraying sickish-soulless spirit-semen across the knuckles of my subconscious seediness seeping scary desires of rape and lust and murder into the sanctuary-of-moral(istic)-leprosy that is my self-consciousness such that super-egoistically I repress it too self-knowingly so that it does no good and stays on the surface beneath pretenses of goodness beneath pretenses of badness cultivated skillfully to seduce the sexual sex who self-delusively select scoundrels to have sex with as the most sinful scoundrel of all sits like Narcissus solitary before his semblance simpering sickeningly through sweetly syntaxed sentences spurted jerkily into daily spots of scholarish swill across swaths of spotless tabula rasas that are thus stained with the sour thoughts of a sullen selfish somber self who tells himself he’s God’s sole son the self-caused antichrist the sower of despair the Universal Solitude that sneaks up silently on unsuspecting humans in their moments of weaknesses and their final instants of existential instantiation (in this cemetery of existence) sapping their sagging spirits of sappy stupid enthusiasm the slag that settles at the lowest levels of the soul like sediment in a wineglass or settlements of squirming maggots on the underside of a squirrel’s carcass yes enthusiasm is the symptom of the philosophically supine soul which refuses to scale the slopes of life’s essence to see the summit of truth and sadness (because it lacks the spirit’s spur of suffering) but instead survives at the subsistence level of “sacred happiness” and sleeps smugly in the sensuous atmosphere of skin-sucking sex-scheming sylph-dreaming milf-reaming cunt-screaming sweet-seeming swinish salivation and spittle-dribbling exhalations as the Christ-despiser sips from the chalice of sacred malice naked malice life-giving malice the real phallus the solace of the solid seeker of self-dissatisfaction the juice that sluices through the sewer of the psyche to stimulate the sexless sperm to spark the process of sexless (self-)creation which specializes in paralyzing the moralizing hypocrasizing sermonizing of Christ-utilizing life-despising self-stylizing ‘sympathizers with celestial saintliness’ who seem rather like ‘sycophants with sovereign servility’ and suggest to me a confusingly self-unaware cerebral impotence or something like a wetless feckless female who worships her own fecklessness in the name of the Spirit up there who dicks himself all over the world smearing his gospel into soft minds like mine deep in confusion and self-doubting hatred of all that obtains.