/bs/ - backstory

Lately, I have very little motivation to care. Everything slips into velter of pointless squabble, into entropy of a rock garden all random. And I find really few reasons to care at all

The reality if there is such a thing is tearing itself apart, at the seams, like a titan holding an enemy above his head and tearing him apart only through sheer brutalic power of muscle. As if just before, a day earlier, all was there, the coherence and the purpose. Reasons to pursue, to stand up and do anything. And now, all that is left is enthropy, eternal vortex of all the broken and the forgotten thoughts, dreams, ideas. There is simply no linkage isnt there, nothing make sense and if someone to say that it does, thats a lie that is chanted as a religious mantra in cases of utter annihilation of meaning

Now I dont see any purpose in any thing. There is no thing that I want to do, that I have motivaion to, or reason, or purpose, there is no thing to attend. It all was dissolved in this vortex and nothing can be done to gain it back. Straight down the drain it go

In this entropy, there are still objects and subjects playing games on each other. It is like a party, but a very boring one, and you are looking like a bird from the outside and all that is happening is randomity, unrefined entropy in its pure form, and nothing that connects any of the actions seen. The obvious assumptions for reality dissasipate like heat, like drop in the water, and no action can be assumed to be done in some logic. There is no logic, it was proven incorrect, now there is no logic. If there was a nexus now there is no nexus to any thing, it is all just set of costumes and props left on the stage, all the purpose has long left this stage and all that remains is open history that is unable to contain in itself the content of our own purpose

In this moment I feel no thing. All that is left is hunger. Im unable to form any opinion, it is all the same. All that is left is tradition, inertia. There is no desperation, just listless ambivalence. There is no reason to care isnt it, if there is no thing to care about, nothing to live about, when all meaning is constantly uprooted and replaced by randomness of facts that ceased to be facts, now they are just words that meant something, now that meaning slipped right under the ground, never to be found

Is there any difference at all? If the color is green or red? Is it solid or liquid? If it is sad or happy? Terror of anomie is exactly this, there is no difference, no significance, no symbolicity, all that is left is terminal condition of being a patient. In sickness, to continue this murmur of entropy, to look crazy and defeated

Perhaps, it is sickness. In my brain some where. Or in my soul, straight in the middle of it, a dark grain lies there. And it weights like a feather, and yet, it weights me down as if it was an unbearable burden. Then Im sick, but wat does it mean to be sick? If Im seen like dat, if I agree to be like dat, does this mean that my purpose is then waning, like my humanity? If all I can see is entropy, does this mean that it is all on me, on my person, in my brain or my soul some where, a parasite which commands this perception and that, perhaps, a cure could be found to heal me from this parasite and make me into healthy human, a more human human, some one with care and purpose

And the truth if there is one is that there is no cure, there is only a lie that makes one believe. And it is my belief that if you take away this black grain in my soul, youll extinguish every thing that remained of me, you reduce me to a doll of no agency, you make me into a convinient slave of your opinion that such souls have no reason to exist, no purpose either, and hence they must be liquidated by any means. Then I see it in your person the hostility and death drive that Ive never witnessed, because the one you want to destroy is not me but yourself. Nothing remains of me, only the black grain. And you? Compared to me you are full, like a bucket of water, pot of gold, you are like a mountain of life, God itself personalized as the slave holder, commander of the whip and violence

And in your eyes Im your slave and slave of your opinion, that this black grain in my soul is yours to take. As if wat am I already is just a carcass and you, a scalpel, took your knife and cut through my body and took it. The black grain that was mine, you imagine yourself, is now yours. You, in your own fantasy, in most dehumanizing, inhuman, fantasy, took all that was of me and make it your own. But in never was, all you have is a whip

I have, even at my lowest, my laugh at you. In my mad sickness I laugh at you, I derride you, I see you for wat you are, little being left wanting. Even in entropy of things, even with neck under the whip of the slaver, I see it, my own value, my own being. My own creative drive, that reduces to nothing the death drive of yours, annihilates your fantasy. All that is left is a bold statement, even in this low state, my life is my art. My sickness is my performance