White Noise
WHITE NOISE
He heard an inner voice ingress his mind, a mind in dragging fever from days spend in front of a pixelled radiation hearth.
No sleep, no dreams. Thrilled by an exhaustion that defeated l'ennui by straining the very same exhaustion and lust to burn up oneself in greatest labours of a scorned spirit to unbearable limits.
A smile fashions his face, an irresistable grin actually...like the Cheshire cat in Alice's story. Engraved forever in the event horizon of a darkening self-complacency of one's time and space.
A dank, dark dungeon...no! A womb! A womb and a new quickened Life created by Stimmung.
Stimmung: our true en personal religion to cross over and make meaning and quality out of a quantified, apathic and crumbling alien world.
It sounded familiar and what it quoted was the pinnacle of witty ingenuity and a logical beauty fixed by supreme rules and intonations.
He had worked all day.
Dried tears of eyes exposed to blazing microwaved heat and stern assertative vibrations of lights and sounds of plastic, plasma and metal had formed salty pools of scabs on the corners of his lids.
A stomach rumbling and contracting in a wild bitchy breakdance.
A body excerted beyond repair yet destined to survive in die Schere beyond the mundane limitations of our trifle bubble of existence.
Indestructible, though you could not tell if he is alive or dead.
His room. Empty. Shorn of compatriot empathy. Roaming in stationary orbit along the periphery of here and yonder.
All alone.
This voice suddenly addresses him. A voice soaked in a wondrous virgin light as no chemical battery could reproduce. Stripping ever further the senses.
A moment of weakness, gullible still for some long-awaited pardon?
He gets his instruction, but by whom?
Desorientation makes room for determination.
His skin not longer gleaming of cold sweet and blighted by deshydration, but flexible, cold sure...cold like the polished whetted steel of a dagger. And likewise piercing. Disdained and lofty, awesome as a unwithered stand-alone monument in a landscape of ruins and vain peeled off in miserable grit.
He exclaims.
He brings silence.
The face of the earth ashamed, the firmanent's tranquility restored.
Manhood giggling as a class of girls, innocently dressed but with a bottom half cry foul for adultery to replenish it soon, so soon possible.
He gave the voice a name, a redeemer only could have noticed his way off Dasein.
He had not dared to see those other facets straight in the eyes. Blinded in exhaustion, he is. He is much more, but he counted it not as real.
He had forgotten that the Kingdom lives in him, lived in him transcripted in some ancient rolls long before the Universe blossomed open (again? again and over again?) and will be forever wedlocked to him beyond the hour he perished and his ashes in greyish brown flakes and dust will be washed away by rain and winds combing and kneading the rotten earth.
He had heard his voice but mistook it for that of a stranger.
He called it Jesus.
Although, that might just be the name of our True Self.
He heard an inner voice ingress his mind, a mind in dragging fever from days spend in front of a pixelled radiation hearth.
No sleep, no dreams. Thrilled by an exhaustion that defeated l'ennui by straining the very same exhaustion and lust to burn up oneself in greatest labours of a scorned spirit to unbearable limits.
A smile fashions his face, an irresistable grin actually...like the Cheshire cat in Alice's story. Engraved forever in the event horizon of a darkening self-complacency of one's time and space.
A dank, dark dungeon...no! A womb! A womb and a new quickened Life created by Stimmung.
Stimmung: our true en personal religion to cross over and make meaning and quality out of a quantified, apathic and crumbling alien world.
It sounded familiar and what it quoted was the pinnacle of witty ingenuity and a logical beauty fixed by supreme rules and intonations.
He had worked all day.
Dried tears of eyes exposed to blazing microwaved heat and stern assertative vibrations of lights and sounds of plastic, plasma and metal had formed salty pools of scabs on the corners of his lids.
A stomach rumbling and contracting in a wild bitchy breakdance.
A body excerted beyond repair yet destined to survive in die Schere beyond the mundane limitations of our trifle bubble of existence.
Indestructible, though you could not tell if he is alive or dead.
His room. Empty. Shorn of compatriot empathy. Roaming in stationary orbit along the periphery of here and yonder.
All alone.
This voice suddenly addresses him. A voice soaked in a wondrous virgin light as no chemical battery could reproduce. Stripping ever further the senses.
A moment of weakness, gullible still for some long-awaited pardon?
He gets his instruction, but by whom?
Desorientation makes room for determination.
His skin not longer gleaming of cold sweet and blighted by deshydration, but flexible, cold sure...cold like the polished whetted steel of a dagger. And likewise piercing. Disdained and lofty, awesome as a unwithered stand-alone monument in a landscape of ruins and vain peeled off in miserable grit.
He exclaims.
He brings silence.
The face of the earth ashamed, the firmanent's tranquility restored.
Manhood giggling as a class of girls, innocently dressed but with a bottom half cry foul for adultery to replenish it soon, so soon possible.
He gave the voice a name, a redeemer only could have noticed his way off Dasein.
He had not dared to see those other facets straight in the eyes. Blinded in exhaustion, he is. He is much more, but he counted it not as real.
He had forgotten that the Kingdom lives in him, lived in him transcripted in some ancient rolls long before the Universe blossomed open (again? again and over again?) and will be forever wedlocked to him beyond the hour he perished and his ashes in greyish brown flakes and dust will be washed away by rain and winds combing and kneading the rotten earth.
He had heard his voice but mistook it for that of a stranger.
He called it Jesus.
Although, that might just be the name of our True Self.
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