timecomesheretowither

26th March 2010

Post with 1 note

An Irong lung

I

Plug into this respiratory machine, finding a will-to-life through a device that resides outside myself, pouring out my dark fantasies onto this shapeless template.  In which individuals find the abyss everywhere, recesses and dark corners basking in its own filth, its own sado-masochistic desires, unable to escape the vicious circle of self-inflicted pain that is enjoyment.

II

“We,”  this remarkable absence, an attempt to forge a new “human” community, finding only an impenetrable abyss.  “We” always search for ourselves, as an assemblage, trying to find each other in hope to find ourselves, but always in terms of outmoded forms, filling out a singularized content, which finds its vitality in ages past - an attempt to hold onto those boundaries, those limits that keep us from going completely crazy, in entering a complete drift skirting the boundaries between reason and delirium.  “We” strive for difference, to be unique, but it always resounds a feeling of utter emptiness—something is missing but how is it so?

III

For, “I” wish to be free of these obsessional compulsions, to become a pure shapeless being, to purely be without any scruples, to overflow my identifications and to not worry about becoming-whatever—to live without mediation.  But this situates itself as an impossibility, where these colliding bodies, these disparate parts,  attempt to discover a form of life without Messianism.  In actuality it presuppose a fundamental grounding in, or presupposition of guiding principles that are inherently Messianic.  If there really is nothing “outside” of ourselves, then how do we begin to break the boundaries of these autistic circles, frozen into a self-perpetuating respiratory apparatus, just in order to sustain itself, struggling to re-vitalize the drive for a will-to-power, for strength, for a new mythic form?  Regeneration of a vital energy that is long gone seems to always find itself in an disingenuous nostalgia.