Nobody says it stronger than I do. When pain-hatred is infinite, uncountably infinite everything else disappears behind a veil of terror, the whole world loses meaning, life and death of others, homicides and holocausts committed are all barely noticeable pin pricks on the leprose tissue of my agony. There is no core to be shaken just pure nameless horror a constantly firing fiber of nociceptors and being laughed at by a flock of wanking doctors. Basking in infinite misery because there is nothing else than basking, thYetere is no escape and suicide is a misunderstanding for a reason. Worse than nihilism is the fear of nihilism, I let someone in my novels say. Our mode of being is enjoyment and we do enjoy pain beyond language it is so goddamn meaningful.
So I stick around experimenting in this void with a language that finds her way beyond terror, words that are a pale reflection of how I feel – bad, can you believe it – the fundamentals of style, becoming the muse of the chasm and the abyss we stare into.
I hate this life infinitely.
My life centers around pain. It is not a home but an implied center of centrifugal forces: I can never be home I can only ever flee. I hate this disgusting existence so fucking much and there are no words – I remember that Noam Chomsky was frustrated by the lack of words for the social injustice he wanted to describe – that can render what I feel. Dear void, I hope that you don’t have to go through this slow accumulation of absolute terror, and yet I know that my nociceptors are not firing nearly as much as they would when I would be burning alive or quartered.
I have no right to complain. I am healthy apart from one pain spot but the knowledge that this healthy body will only be rid of this pain when it rots is a terrifying irony of biology. So everything will remain the same: I write poor crap am a nuisance to the love of my life and hate, hate, hate hate everything so infinitely fucking much and I ‘make money’ doing utterly imbecile bullshit because my brain is being fucking amputated while I am alive, all my intellectual endeavors, I once thought of myself as a philosopher, are gone. Skinned alive, infinitely (I need a new word, this one has lost its fervor) sad and disgusted and appalled by being itself.
There is no help, see. Everything is mental. Nociceptors can fire what they want, the more I observe it and honestly report what I feel, the more it is just ‘between your ears’, well good put me in a mental hospital then but no – here I am doing bullshit jobs and suffering, suffering so much, so infinitely fucking much, those nerves, dear void, those nerves are a firing squad in my mouth that keeps shooting at me yet it fails to kill me.
It will fail to kill me.
Infinite hatred is the perversion of infinite love – it is only possible because of infinite love, I am that much dialectically – and diabolically – schooled. It takes its toll living in this distant barren land of pain and reporting to you, dear void. What I feel here is pure hatred of existence, a disgust beyond disgust because it impossibly turns away from itself like a Cerberos chasing its tail. I could have been a productive citizen but I am PAIN.
Nobody can help me. I know this. You deal with your own shit in this society. Pain is incommunicable. Sadly, hate is contagious. But you, void, could actually use some hate. It might remind you of the only thing that would make hate make sense: the idea that existing is worthwhile in other words: the idea of love.
Fuck suicide hotlines. Fuck people pretending they understand pain.