Saturday, January 12, 2008

I will not cease from mental fight...

There exists great political turmoil in my brain. It has become worrisome. In the general populous of my mind there exists a growing faction that desires a "common" psychical world. They are led my Avery Mann, and they argue for domestic bliss. He is unassuming but powerful; he is funded by Ikea; he is not as affable as he appears.

I fear if he were in power, the self would die and beauty would wither. In 10 years they would be viewed as mental perversions; in 20, they would be forgotten.

Constant spending
Brings joy and
A rotting of the brain.

In my interior territories, the Aesthetes have been in power for 20 years now. They are led by the magnificent Joseph Whitelilly--an Ahab-like monomaniac, driven by beauty. He is growing old (though remains quite dapper). He has created spectacular monuments and has written all our laws in verse. He puts poppy oil in the water instead of fluoride. His reign has built grand monuments of the imagination--paintings and architecturally arranged words--but I fear he has underestimated the power of the common man and this magical paper he calls "money."

Also, the trains never run on time and the stupid are put to death. I confess: The regime is imperfect.

Avery Mann hides in the bushes: an affable proxy for a bloodthirsty beast.

I dream of growls and snarls... But I also dream of acceptance... Perhaps I should just fall into the domestic sleep and perish gradually and imperceptibly. I'll laugh the stupid laugh. I imagine being an idiot could be a lot of fun.

If only it were possible... But I cannot forget my dreams--I am forever an opium puffer, a servant of Beauty. And now I find myself sounding like Milton's Satan--fighting for a lost cause--but there is a difference: I would be surrendering to a vacuity rather than an Absolute.

Dear Satan, hear my words: Mee miserabler! King of the Underworld, I am King of the Beautiful Fools.

I am a recluse in darkness,
The only light my computer screen.
My mind hums and drones
An electronic "Om"
(or is it Ω)
And I pray that death accompanies
My next and final binge.

He-hem... Excuse me. There is someone at the door (Mephistopheles as a poodle, perhaps?). Stiff upper lip and all that. Please, Dear Reader, don't tell the world that I feel and am perhaps a little fragile.

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