This world is drowning in dirt, both in material and metaphysical dirt. It reeks of shit.
Nothing pure or ideal left unscathed, nothing clean or detached. Roman palaces stench of nearby McDonalds fastfood. Greek statues get mashed up with the heads and oiled bodies of braindead celebrities on the pages of glossy magazines. The tombs of noble pharaohs lay robbed, opened up and dishevelled like needy whores, splayed to be violated by greasy, glassy-eyed tourists.
All the beauty is gone, sapped out of here. The only occasional beauty is in things that weren't created for being "beautiful", but in things created to bring death or resources. Beauty nowadays is created only for lust of the lowest kind. Beauty that promises a secret beneath it, but has nothing but the same old recycled sluttish hunger reaching out at anyone who falls in the illusion. Cannot trust it, cannot see it as real, just a venus flytrap pheromon attraction that targets not the frontal lobes, but your spinal cord. Shiny, oily, smooth, polychromous. Not clean, not self-serving.
I hate tropical forests. Don't care that they are the lungs of this place, because they are a role model for this rotten modern "paradise". Bright flowers, green vines, huge trees towering towards the sun, but giving shade in which all these flourishing plants asphyxate each other in the treacherous, lethal embraces, slowly strangulating and sucking out the life - in the humid air, the process of decay and decomposition goes on exceptionally fast, in this dog-eat-dog environment of never ending consumption from which no one is exempt. The circle of life, the accursed circle of Sansara.
Everything decays here, rots, stinks with hypocrisy, while under the tightly stretched smiles over bones, the flesh is already being recycled by tiny maggots. People love their parasites, their babies.
There is no real sympathy here. No love, no respect, no friendship. Only desperate clawing at your feet of those who try to drag you down with the weight of their pathetic, worthless short lives. A cesspool of suffering, covered by the flashy, ravenous glamour of burning it away in the pursuit of a "good rich life". No loyalty, no ideology, no sacrifices for things other than your own temple of flesh, for your own indulgence.
There is no real fury or rage, no real hate here. It's outlawed, it's toned down, tabooed, obscene, talked about only in the hysterics of the news announcers when they lament about how the society got savage - but the real savagery, the real savagery of bleeding the bad blood out, the renewal, the cleansing - it is lost. What is left is the savagery of wild dogs fighting over some leftovers, that's why it's so dirty and dark.
I am dirty too, flesh from flesh if this reality. No matter how I realise it, I'm not the person who is above it all, no, I'm deep and comfortable in this gutter. Sexual perversions, vanity, self-indulgence, chained to this warm existence by a chokehold of so many substances. I may not be afraid of the dark, but I'm afraid of true insanity.
Yet, I wish purity. Long for it. But said purity can only be found in the shards of past, or in these inanimate objects that people usually abandon or don't pay attention to. Mechanisms. Weapons. Objects. I dislike people who collect war regalia. Never was yours, never would be, until you spill blood like they did. I admire the act, and will take it for me to keep and cherish, not some rusty piece of metal given not for my bravery. Only the past breaths of some significance, the pleasant nostalgia of many, many deaths in the name other than that of Moloch.
All of this swirling, twitching, convulsing mass that just eats, shits and reproduces, that holds to the tiny percents of those who could actually move and create, it should be purified. Turned into something useful.
Oh how I want to purify even the tiniest splotch of this rotting, hopeless place. How this desire burns, like a dark lump of coal deep in the gut, the blaze waking up even from the must drunken, desperate hours of the same cockroach existence I lead.
How much of a difference would insanity make, if one comes to stop fearing it? Don't know.
At the end, I'll be packed in an urne, like everyone else. Though not I, but my representative remains. It doesn't really matter anything. When I read about how the great Thirteen's ashes had been blown away over the Baltic Sea, in an act that was supposed to erase the presence of these people in minds, hearts and history, I start thinking about those many scumbags who's flesh had been entombed in gold and marble of memory and praise. So does it matter? No. What matters is how much mud I'd scrap from the face of Earth with my hands before my time would come.
We all had been put in graves long before we'd actually cease to exist. However, dead travel fast. Why they travel? Because they cannot bear to look at what's under their feet, at this decay and moral degradation, so they flee and change place, back to the North were cold slows the process down. And then, back to the frozen lake of Tacith, to the coldest place there ever is, to be soothed by the ice of it's black waters.
Cold slows the process down. But probably only a fire can eradicate it completely.
