Wednesday, October 10, 2007

fear and loathing

Too many people know me here. This place seems like a ghetto where everyone knows everyone else, where eventually we all have to perish. No one comes out alive. Before that, there shall be some moments of respite, but punctuating these moments will be a fierce countenance stretched taut over the hours—millions of them one after the other, like an army of ants. The thought of it makes me cower. All the tenacity melts to unmanly wuss and rises up in guttural convulsions. It sucks me out hollow and vacant. And then fills me with hunger for the same things again. I look through the same recipe again; I cook the same poison; I stuff myself with it.

And the turnstiles to the park rotate again. I make a full circle to find myself at where I began, veritably rooted. My system can never assimilate the poisonous air—I turn to smoke coarse desires, I slake my thirst with cheap money. Such a warp. The forces are at it, twisting that which has been eulogized as unbending—the spirit. But it’s dead and it’s famous. That’s why everyone is brandishing a copy of the neatly written eulogy.

I can’t fight the future. I can’t fight when I’m asleep. I can’t fight because I’m busy. People, listen! Come together and destroy each other. Let’s all fall apart because there’s a private solace in witnessing a collective fall. Damn he who doesn’t participate.

Let us fall in love, fuck our brains out, and fuck some more. Let’s fuck, fuck like rabbits. Fuck until we can’t even see the cobwebs. Or let’s reign in our fucks for now, and be moral. Better still, let’s save ourselves for the eventual fuck. Let’s then have kids and sit at interviews offering donations for admission to kindergarten. Let’s turn teachers and preach. Do this; don’t look up a lady’s skirt; don’t cheat in exams; don’t lie; speak your mind, albeit when mommy and daddy are in a good mood. Let’s push them to excellence; to thinner air. Let’s make educated piggy banks out of our children.

Let’s smooth all edges in hindsight. Let the obituaries of sick, devouring parasites read well. Let’s all write them in good English.

“Son,” the father said, “Do you see this?”
“Yes, father.”
“This is a machete. Learn to wield it.”
“For what, father?”
“Learn to use it on yourself; learn to chop, to pare down yourself so that you fit in.”
“But won’t I kill myself then?”
“No son, you’ll only learn to grow in ways that agree, that blend with the landscape.”

8 comments:

Shishir said...

Loved it..
“Learn to use it on yourself; learn to chop, to pare down yourself so that you fit in.”
“But won’t I kill myself then?”

Ghetto it is...

Charl said...

Aaaah. A lil angst? Funny, you seem like such an cheerful thing all the time, smiling your cheerful wrinkly smile, making your awful cheerful jokes, and then defending them, all cheerful. ALL the time.

What else have you been hiding from us?

Charlotte said...

...and that would be "a cheerful thing." God knows, I'M not so cheerful right now.

satyajit said...

shishir: thank you very much. I remembered this sonfg by Moby called "machete," and thats where the imagery originated from.

charlotte: you said it

Still searching said...

While you would'nt have conveyed the thought well enough if you hadn't used good English, I find myself wondering about the same things you've talked about... I'm not sure if its something personal or if its a general malaise, but I find myself questioning all these things too.. as I read the post, I realize how many things are really screwed up, which I've learnt to just block out..

Deepthi said...

a question of upbringing?.. a very scary thought :)

satyajit said...

still searching: ya, they are in ways that are as different as they are same

deepthi: I agree

Deepthi said...

But I think the damage done reduces exponentially with each generation!