Disappearers

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Dead generation this. Dead generation that. People not as people but as beer turds that glisten in the toilet the morning after the decade before. There are no cultures, and there are no horizons, just these shapes that come in and out of focus before disappearing completely as if they were never here to begin with. And these shapes, they play the game and climb the ladder, and some even ponder the reasons why, but it’s never with any conviction. It’s all about repetition. Repeat! Repeat! Repeat! While all the time telling each other that it has meaning and that it has merit. And to think they say it with a straight face, too. The great fakers. The trepid masturbators who preach the truth while lying through their back teeth. No magic, and no wonder, just bones and dreary vision and enough dead sex to kill off anything that in the slightest way resembles tenderness, because to be tender is to be weak and the weak are crushed with little pity. Because it’s all about fitting in and not arousing suspicion and god forbid anyone were to raise their hand and speak out about not wanting to be part of this useless charade. Is it any surprise that so many choose to kill themselves rather than live in a world like this? And yet whenever someone exits stage left, we act stunned and try to figure why they did it as if it were some great mystery. What bullshit. Dead cities. Dead towns. Crowds as clowns and insects stinking of stale sweat and piss. Even a push-up bra and a decent set of tits leaves you feeling cold and disorientated. The banality of humans. The boredom that comes from being chained to the same. There’s escape in the bottle and books and words and embraces and places far from where we reside, but none of them can erase the horrors of what we are. In a giddy moment of pleasure, we forget ourselves and breathe easy, but in an instant, we return and are damned yet again. And yet while for us such a predicament is enough to take us to the brink of despair, the rest don’t even notice. Or if they do, it doesn’t matter to them, such is their ambivalent nature. It’s the same day in and day out, which is why we slowly drift away. They tell us not to, but that’s even more of a reason to let go. They tell us we’ll end up wasting our lives, but only when we’re free from their clutches will we know why we keep going with this thing when it would be so easy to just quit.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

15 replies »

  1. “In a giddy moment of pleasure, we forget ourselves and breathe easy, but in an instant, we return and are damned yet again.” That was an incredible piece. Where would we be if it weren’t for art, for the ability to express the horrors we’ve seen and been through? Thank you for sharing this.

    I also wanted to tell you I nominated you for the Unique Blogger Award πŸ™‚ You can read the guidelines here: https://riotsbyfreedomwriter.wordpress.com/2017/08/05/unique-blogger-award/. I hope you’ll be able to participate!

    • Thank you! I’m thrilled it reached out and spoke to you on such a level. Indeed, without art we would be dead in water, no better than a jellyfish.

      And thank you for the nomination. I feel very privileged. You’ve put a smile on my face πŸ™‚

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