I hate everything that has ever been. I hate every single person, every creature either dead or dying. I hate myself above all.
This is wrong. This is judgemental, which presupposes a natural value or heierarchy, but all I see around me are human automatons peopling a folk-puppet nightmare. They are diseased with blindness, acting unconsciously in the most self-serving and violent way possible. They welcome their state of nothingness except as a mass body. They shout and curse and judge, and their violence is everywhere against themselves and against me.
I have to get out of this. I am sick with it all. There is nothing for me though. Even bloody SJW does nothing. My work makes me angry and my mind tears through my thoughts when I’d rather it did not. All of it just makes me feel sick. As it makes me this way, hence I am tiny, nothing, powerless dupe of circumstance. The lie of this nightmare of popular culture, one of ten thousand different fools plugged in and zoned out listening to their master’s voice. The words of passivism, hedonism, depression, competition, cynicism. Me. Me. I am dead like them all, but here I am – here I talk, the dead man. A paean against nothing, misunderstood like all missives as machinations of madness. Here another dead man talks a similarly sorry tale of his shit, another drip on html feed.
This is fucked. But all I see is this mass hypnosis. They all look and act the same, they express the death of their individual for “especially for you“ mass-manufacture music, consumer goods, profile styles. And me the dead man, in my Primark shirt, hand-me-down jeans and blank DMs, the closest to a rational uniform if ever possible.
I hate it all. And there is no fucking hope now in these dead times. We look to popular recorded music for some sign of revolt, but all of this is just working class self-employed capital well before privatisation. This is the dead time. Where is the revolutions, in the politics section of Waterstones, in the Amazon wishlist, in the Hollywood comic’s stand-up routine? This is the dead time coming from a dead man. A man with no freedom because he accepts every institution and idea to control him. The slave who put the future and general ease first, thereby reasoning to himself like a fool whilst enshackled. Moronic bumface. Indeed.
Don’t worry, this was written a few weeks back.
Leave a Reply