That we couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't imagine, but only smell, lying surreptitiously
beneath our feet, beneath our coruscating hopes and visions.
Truth that they have is a version of their own endeavours, their own
volition to create a perfect world in all the disparity and dystopia
they live in. But that is truth after all, undeniable, infallible,
unquestionable. Yet, not true.
The gutters lay glutted with the stench of human faeces, not churned up by their gleeful guts but by their decadent souls. Those bereaved souls which never spoke of truth but of denial of it, of mere superimpositions of reality with convenience, of belief with faith. Human bones mangled up beneath healthy skin, spineless and servile, standing erect only in imaginations profound enough to blind them. Dead women and children, and men alike, floating underneath our unconscious minds, the blindness gifted to us by our version of truth, we do not want to see the dead and the rotten, with their entrails regurgitated like it were some bad meal, killed by the denial of the living, killed by the conceitedness in their own lives. No one likes to step into that murk, not to clean it, but to find a familiar face. They are dead; they have departed into the dark oblivion of our short lived memories. Fragile as it is our vision of the world we live in, of that we lose and let go off while holding onto things we perceive important, when we quantify events and objects within them as right and wrong or true and false skipping mindlessly the possible starkness of the life below, within the sewers, within the drains, flowing out with a gushing sound doused by the apparent liveliness of our apparently lively lives above.
Then we sit back, and think, precluding every other thought from our current deliberation about the conundrum that we are in, about letting go or adopting and adapting. We like the liveliness, the surrogate consciousness, the outsourced truth and the quintessential delusions that make our lives go smoothly, yet we might cry one night, only to let those cesspools to fill up, bloat up like sacrificial lambs, filling up further like a hungry beast happily swallowing more, guffawing at how we like to kill, to murder mindlessly every day. Kosher human cadavers dried up of blood, of life, with gaping holes at their throat, waiting for the long and unrelenting decomposition, of complete obliteration, from memory and from world. Such is life, or what we think is life…
The gutters lay glutted with the stench of human faeces, not churned up by their gleeful guts but by their decadent souls. Those bereaved souls which never spoke of truth but of denial of it, of mere superimpositions of reality with convenience, of belief with faith. Human bones mangled up beneath healthy skin, spineless and servile, standing erect only in imaginations profound enough to blind them. Dead women and children, and men alike, floating underneath our unconscious minds, the blindness gifted to us by our version of truth, we do not want to see the dead and the rotten, with their entrails regurgitated like it were some bad meal, killed by the denial of the living, killed by the conceitedness in their own lives. No one likes to step into that murk, not to clean it, but to find a familiar face. They are dead; they have departed into the dark oblivion of our short lived memories. Fragile as it is our vision of the world we live in, of that we lose and let go off while holding onto things we perceive important, when we quantify events and objects within them as right and wrong or true and false skipping mindlessly the possible starkness of the life below, within the sewers, within the drains, flowing out with a gushing sound doused by the apparent liveliness of our apparently lively lives above.
Then we sit back, and think, precluding every other thought from our current deliberation about the conundrum that we are in, about letting go or adopting and adapting. We like the liveliness, the surrogate consciousness, the outsourced truth and the quintessential delusions that make our lives go smoothly, yet we might cry one night, only to let those cesspools to fill up, bloat up like sacrificial lambs, filling up further like a hungry beast happily swallowing more, guffawing at how we like to kill, to murder mindlessly every day. Kosher human cadavers dried up of blood, of life, with gaping holes at their throat, waiting for the long and unrelenting decomposition, of complete obliteration, from memory and from world. Such is life, or what we think is life…
