Terror Cognitivo
Before I start writing this I just want to say that, im allowing myself to write this. That these walls above us are encroaching, encaging vessels. And we are here, beneath them, submerged in the flesh.
The coldness that snow brings is refreshing. Before it commences, the bleak winds are unbearable and if anything less, signify a colder near future. But during the snowfall, the blistering ice that builds up on everything is nice. It mends and attempts to amend what we all do everyday. And much more than a physical layer of frost, it is a pulsing heart beat, melting away our blacktar city. But in that same night, its all gone and converted, melted, wasted away.
I see you.
Filling up your homes and protruding within the world. Like tiny ants wanting to live in the lions den. But you don't see me. I am outside your window, becoming one with the cold. Letting it decay on my body, letting it wash itself into my skin. I am the world tonight, dying in a smoldering heat, anxious for more energy, energy which shall be infused and converted into nothing. Because what you live for is less than nothing. And your family is worthless.
These feelings push up inside me, confiding in the falling snow. These seeds are pressed into the ground, and stomped in for comforting. And even though I was born a bastard, I still became something worthy. But that definition is always elusive and is always reduced to nothing, to its negative state. And what are you?
I ask, as an orphan child.
Who was born to beckon only pain and death. And worse yet, the ceaseless, mockery of remorse that drools out of your mouths. Blast you. Blasted flicks, flickering in the wind, waiting for the coldest of winds to wipe you away.
I ask what are you. WHEN EVERYTHING IS GONE.
How strong are you. When everything is gone and only the earth is there to comfort you. When the coldest winds bring you warmth. When you are the only one left alive. You are the harbinger, the convertor, the mother, the son, the breeder, the reducer, the tempest.
I am the tempest. Swift in motion, above the flying sky. Like a black decaying breeze in 1912.
Like a mortar bomb striking down a thousand fold. Pushing into the ground with such a force as to push even further within the skins of men and forcing even more, as to collapse them. As to disconnect them. And end them. As to leave some alive, as if at random it was.
What are you when there is only dirt.
When everything is stripped of you. What are you when you face the universe. When you challenge a supreme deity that cackles your way, that see's you in serpentine eyes. What are you when there is no thought.
Who do you become? Will you survive?
How trivial it is, to even flirt with the idea. A stroke of egotism that has no boundaries or limitations.
But mans ferocity is unlimited, it is unbridled. Cast me god's ultimate curse, cast my way your wishes. For they are under the ground. Under. They are no where.
Will you survive? Are you even alive? Are there anymore days?
In the storm of this life, there is peace. Everyday could be peaceful. I can be everything I want to be, and everything you want me to be. Happiness is a golden coin, a token you give a man to bring you to the other side of the river. It is crossing the river, in the small ferry on a warm spring day, looking down into the stretches of murky water and noticing a fish jump through the air. But happiness and its supremacy. And hatred with its negativity. Is as relative and disgusting as everything you stand for.
Man's will to evolve is a beautiful thing. It's a matrimony to the unknown, a deep connection to nature and the sciences. To God. And in today's world, that is a beautiful thing to still have hold of.
