Surfaces

At times I can barely stand it.

My blackhearted hatred for this place, for my situation within this place, tries to overwhelm me. I do not possess the words--nay, there are not enough words, proper words--to convey how much I despise my current existence.

Detestation. Disgust. Antipathy. Contempt. Bitterness. Loathing, revulsion, abhorrence, repulsion and repugnance. The venomous malignant spleen of my hatred for this odious place, this execratory life here, cannot be captured by mere words. Or by mere images.

I exist on a plane of surfaces.

Certainly there is a factor of loneliness. That is, I have made and can make no acquaintances upon this island. Oh, it's not that I am not allowed to do so (I think) it is that any acquaintance, let alone actual friendship, would be predicated upon a lie. I could never reveal who I really am, could never explain why and how and what I am doing in this place.

Any relationship would only be upon the surface.

So, I have no one to whom or which to express my deep soul-crushing outrage. This seething pestilential loathing. This Quelle Horreur--affreux palpitant de la haine--that is my daily life.

I can only talk to you, my impossible reader, follower, viewer, blogee. You who can not talk back to me. You who does not exist. So, essentially, I reserve my hatred for myself.

It is this life on the surface that makes the word "Escape" so sweet to my inner ears. How could I not dream of leaving this land of tripe and rotting loveless rutabagas, of corn-eared exoskeletons and scattered soybean husks? This vegetative life?

Longing and lonliness. I do sometimes allow myself to wonder about people I knew. People from my past. And those places. About who I was and who I could be. Yet, these are defeating thoughts, ones that lead to anger and despair. An airy and un-physical violence that serves nothing except to further the self-pitying anguish that can rise like a whale from my gullet. A baleine from the bile.

So as advice to you, dear non-existant, do not go up those steps:

Or down the crazy hall:

Into the dark:

Where your heart is only a blank sconce in the firmament of Soybean Island:

Do not go.



#1957