That day was a sad day. One filled with strange emotions, empty efforts, shattered hearts. Your right ventricle now lays in the toilet bowl; it is completely submerged. The clear water is colored, red. I can only envision its awful taint and smell its putrid pain.
But what a cleansing flush it could be! Your heart was festering, I recognize the feeling. Let the blue water sterilize and renew. Let your bout with death open your psyche and bring you peace. Let your depressive disease rot in the city's sewers along with the woes of all those who feel pain as strongly as you.
Those who grapple with death understand life. And only those who understand life behold the roots of the universe. It is true that the roots are sickly, shriveled, and plague-ridden. It is true that the dirt that nourishes them is filled with maggots, over-nourished maggots who writhe in spasmodic horror.
Yet we must breathe it in, we must taste the mud, we must digest that putrescence. It is a duty unconsciously placed upon our shoulders by the unenlightened. It is our duty as responsible, intelligent citizens of Earth. What we have is a blessed curse. It is the unasked-for power of the poet. Its unending burn blisters the soul.
We are all buzzing flies in the stagnant air. But there is a web that was spun by who knows what, and a Black Widow lurks at the very center. And some of us get caught in the net and struggle and struggle. The more we struggle the more entangled we become, and our buzzing cries are ignored by the world at large. Some of us stop struggling and will the eight-legged predator to descend and drain our lifeblood with her painless fangs. We are fearful and enervated at the same time, and her poison deadens our senses at the very end. We smile as consciousness languidly slips away. Reality becomes nothing but a bad dream.
But us flies can sense a threat; it is our communal duty to save our kin. And so we slash the web with the most natural love beating in our hearts. It is a love that should be louder than thunder and is lightninged by the moment.
But what a cleansing flush it could be! Your heart was festering, I recognize the feeling. Let the blue water sterilize and renew. Let your bout with death open your psyche and bring you peace. Let your depressive disease rot in the city's sewers along with the woes of all those who feel pain as strongly as you.
Flush your right ventricle down the pipes. I know you can make do with the left one.
Those who grapple with death understand life. And only those who understand life behold the roots of the universe. It is true that the roots are sickly, shriveled, and plague-ridden. It is true that the dirt that nourishes them is filled with maggots, over-nourished maggots who writhe in spasmodic horror.
Yet we must breathe it in, we must taste the mud, we must digest that putrescence. It is a duty unconsciously placed upon our shoulders by the unenlightened. It is our duty as responsible, intelligent citizens of Earth. What we have is a blessed curse. It is the unasked-for power of the poet. Its unending burn blisters the soul.
We are all buzzing flies in the stagnant air. But there is a web that was spun by who knows what, and a Black Widow lurks at the very center. And some of us get caught in the net and struggle and struggle. The more we struggle the more entangled we become, and our buzzing cries are ignored by the world at large. Some of us stop struggling and will the eight-legged predator to descend and drain our lifeblood with her painless fangs. We are fearful and enervated at the same time, and her poison deadens our senses at the very end. We smile as consciousness languidly slips away. Reality becomes nothing but a bad dream.
But us flies can sense a threat; it is our communal duty to save our kin. And so we slash the web with the most natural love beating in our hearts. It is a love that should be louder than thunder and is lightninged by the moment.
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