Credence To a Devil’s Promise

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I’m in a private hell.

I call it the cave. Many people call it the cave. But it’s never the same place. The only common factor between all caves is the characteristic of solitude. But there’s always a devil waiting outside, wanting to come in, waiting for me to slip and come out. Temptation outside the sanctuary where I retreat to let many thoughts play out; to let many ideas battle each other, allowing possibilities to cancel each other out, so that by the end, when it’s safe to come out, I’d have a clearer vision of my reality.

I relish that moment of comfort when I come out.

But there’s a devil outside, waiting.

I create my own misery, and excuses are defence mechanisms which rid me of the clear insight: I am responsible for myself.

How I wish the eternal can truly be the momentary.

The first beginning broke its promise. I was promised nonexistence, but abortion was aborted and I came out, disappointed. Ever since, I’ve been trying to make amends, as if it was I who broke the promise. The years went by, and the play developed; the theatre at home became more complex, but it always centred on the same fights.

When you meet your maker, your only obligation is to make him cry, simply because he offends you by trying to claim that he knows what he has created.

By the end of every act, I was expected to retrieve and extract the moral of the drama. The moral is yet to be extracted. With each act, alienation increased, and the only truth I knew was that I wasn’t supposed to be. So I rid myself of experience and life and strove towards intentional unhappiness, disappointment and loneliness. I dented my mind awkwardly.

The unlived past is my psychological burden. I always try to dance with what might have been while everything good passes me by. An unfulfilled past haunts me and every beginning breaks its promise.

So I invite clandestine characters into the play of my life. Secret acts are played behind the scenes with actresses of different kinds. Soon enough, I realize that I need them, each and every one of them; this realization strikes me like a cancerous imperfection: dependency and necessity.

Truth, unless I find it, is not truth. Find a voice. The voice tells me what I long for. “Ahlan” and women crying from the impeding great doom. What could I possibly long for?

Home. Family. A pillow and a good night’s sleep. The actresses would promise me that. But every beginning breaks its promise, and I’ll die in dark corner after experiencing the most agonizing breath possible. My actresses love so that they can be loved, but I’ll die in a corner distant from their eye. My inner acolyte will be disappointed. My inner acolyte told me to follow, but I did not listen when it mattered.

Take me to the place where you go. Take the look off my face. Don’t go away. I need more time. Say what you want to say. But don’t go away. Take me away. Crazy days make me shine. A little bit of craziness, a little bit of eccentricity is all for the good. Allow me to jump before I think. It will be a constant, inexhaustible, unfathomable adventure. But I’ll try my best.

Love is the law. Love under will. And there is no law beyond do what thou wilt. But my inner acolyte leaves. Every one leaves. An unfulfilled past haunts me and now I fear the tomorrow. I destroy my today. Am I to blame? Is what I’m feeling inside guilt?

Everything arising from guilt becomes a duty. But the important thing to remember is that guilt can only come from memory, a product of the past. That said, it is clear enough to say that everything arising from guilt is a reaction produced by the unfulfilled past. It’s hard to start acting again.

I create my own misery. There are no more excuses. Compromise is ugly. All this could have been solved by living up to the promise. All this could have been avoided with abortion. One broken promise can alter a whole life. Do I deserve this wanton life? Question the equation.

The devil outside is waiting. The devil who wants to tear me with its mammonic claws. The devil who does not ask questions. The devil with no predetermined answers; just a desire to rip me apart and tear me asunder. A devil doing its job perfectly. A devil who would have probably been a better master. The devil would not have acted. The devil would have told me to forget about nouns. “Take love only as a verb,” he’d tell me. And perhaps, if I had embraced the devil I would have lived.  But I’m coming out of the cave this time without a thought. The devil can tear me with its claws. Nothing will come out. The devil will always be responsible for the end; credence to the devil’s word. I’m coming out as light as a white cloud above a field of wheat. I am empty. Perhaps the devil will fulfil my past and rid me of a tomorrow and give me the paradox of finding eternity in a moment. I am ready.

“Ahlan,” says the devil, and I hear a mother and actresses crying when they see my doom.

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In Memoriam

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We are the plaything of memory.

My memory is a masquerade of historicism; A façade which designs events with superfluous lavish words and a timeline as intermitted as loving relationships. A simple subject-verb-object would do most of the times, but with ignorant use I sprinkle adjectives and adverbs to make my memory seem as unrealistic as a teenager’s wet dream.

I am the truth.

A voice, rough and screechy.

I am the truth.

I am emptied. I am darkness. In Memoriam and any sense of Self is gone.

Ahlan. The voice, from a past, a memory. Ahlan. The voice, the orator of departure. I am the Truth. The truth is in the past. The past is in the darkness. The darkness reduces me to oneness, and I am timeless and formless. I am nameless.

In one sweet moment you’ll be home. Just come give me a kiss.

That voice, from my past, my memory. Mammon.

Precious.

My old way. The low way. It is the only truth I have known. Should I cross the line?

Cross! Transgress! Break the Limit!

I am as good as dead. The orator of departure lures me. Why has he come?

I am the Truth, the only Truth in darkness.

My voice, in the present. An event. And I depart.

But I go round and round and Mammon laughs. My old ways are circular. And he speaks as he gives me a lecherous kiss.

I am the orator of departure, and I speak only of departure. So excuse my sudden departure, but it comes at a right time. Listen to the world shouting. A cacophony of angry voices, driven by a demonic will-to-power. Each culture, each nation, each country, each city, each individual is trying to give meaning to the world, and these meanings fight each other, producing that ever defining, albeit negative, factor: difference. But is there meaning? Is there purpose?

Forgive me for always surprising you. I just did not feel obliged to work according to your structured meta-narrative of how I should be, and in the case of surprises, of how I shouldn’t be. Your knowledge of me does not create me. I am my own creator. I jump off the peak instead of trotting miserably down the mountainside. I bend my knees and embrace freefall. In mid-air you never miss the ground. I surprised you while tried to wake you up. The awakening needs violence because you are stubborn, and you stubbornly stood in front of me whenever you felt lacking. You handcuffed your own hands and boiled your mind so that nothing could have touched it without experiencing your hotheadedness. You met me with ready-made attitudes. I stood like a riddle already cracked before I spoke. Ever since, you have filtered my words according to the algorithm which you think can decipher me; as you did so, you only saw the pre-conceived image you had of me, the dead portrait hung in your museum, without a voice. You felt superior as you stared at me, as if my existence was contingent with your pleased eye; as if I was only for you and because of you. So excuse me for suddenly departing. I had to before I became cemented as the prototype you think I am and make me to be.

The world was once a curious little thing. At some odd point, the questions of curiosity became a quest of passion, and the world personified stood in front of me as a silent person, yet telling me, confirming that it was a person I desired. On this quest I realized that the world personified (for clarity, a she) is a shore never to be known, an abyss never to end. But at the same time I felt Vertigo, a fear of falling coupled with a strange desire. I could never tell if I’d fall away from me.

But let her forgive my departure. She gave me no truth and I could not trust her as she suddenly proclaimed interest then took it away. I loved her. Let her forgive my departure. She wanted me only because I hated to let her down; but I needed someone to fight for me, to bolster my existence and respect my mind. She saw what she wanted to see, she loved what she wanted to love, but she never really saw or loved the rest of me. I love the world, but the hurt turned to hatred and when she took a wrong turn around the sun, I had to depart.

You have to depart. I only talk from your memory. I am part of you.

Texts have connections to the physical realm; Maybe forgetfulness should be an adaptive measure for preventing pain. But who said that evolution is something other than mere useless mutation.

We are the plaything of memory. Without memory there would be no guilt. Any act arising out of guilt becomes a duty. A deontological presence lacks passion. Mammon gives me a lecherous kiss again and holds me dearly. The gates of my hellish past open and welcome me with their bright orange light. But I see Nyx. She is terror made flesh: sublime and ethereal. She stands like a mother standing above her child’s cradle and looks at me with ostensible love.

I am the plaything of memory. And I am the architect which builds on it and designs it. But for now let me go to Nyx who can give me a dream independent of my reality, a dream of her own words, a fantasy of her own mind, a trace of darkness from her memories. A dream which permits me to be without being in the world.

Mammon departs. the truth is that there is no Truth, but there is a way forward; I am not stuck in the same circle.

Assassin

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Assassin.

I am not to blame. Something inside her tells her: something has unexpectedly gone wrong.

The more I inquire into the order of things, the clearer the structure becomes. It’s an assortment of musical scales playing over each other, fooling people into believing that there is no order, but if you listen intently, listen to it, it all follows a pattern.

The oud plays in the background from a dented speaker. She has been treating me like a movie star, filling me with kisses and enjoyment, promising me breakfast and dessert and transgressions in a tone of sexual presence. I find wonders in her. A note played in discordance, unpredictable, bestowing herself to ultimate chance, the lightness which assassinates the demons within. She is the only true assassin I know.

Open up your mind. Live life to the fullest. Life is not a problem to be solved. Life is a mystery to be lived. Never stay in one hole in hope of the same truth. Interpretation is creativity. Dance the dance of Zarathustra and never mind the structure. The structure is based on human minds. Open up the portal to your mind and make the truth important. The truth can only be important if you find it.

My sun, my illumination. Her words are temptation manifested. Her wandering hands travel over my body and dispel the myths of etiquette and manners beneath the table. And suddenly, I feel an urge springing from my core, an urge which forces me to tighten the muscles around my pelvis and anus, I feel an urge to shit.

To go to a pub, to feel free from the source of fear back home, to do the same thing over and over and over again because for you this is how it is ought to be. At home, something always unexpectedly goes wrong. Back home, the sun is eclipsed and there is no illumination. Children of the darkness limping and staggering in fear of the one who does not live, who does not love, who does not see, who does not hear. We walk into fear’s arms and label the punishment it gives us as a misfortune. The fear will never tame us.

Prudence is only a result of injury. Prudence makes us stupid. Prudence is only viable if there are laws. Laws can only exist in the presence of systemized fear. Prudence does not make us better.

I tighten my muscles as much as I can. She whispers in my ear and right there, my illuminative power is stripped away, she speaks of assassination.

No. She whispers. But I am a master, the conquering one, who strikes, even in the darkness, and I’ll give it full force and I’ll strike. The sun will be eclipsed and if she’ll look at me she’ll be blinded, she’ll be silent, she’ll be deaf, she’ll be a stone rock, she’ll be unable of loving, of caring, of being selfishly responsible.

I refrain. I will submit to my assassin, and tomorrow I will not exist as I am right now. Tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in a non-necessary way of life.

A kiss is all that is needed, and a kiss is all I give, and I feel better.

I am not to blame. Something inside her tells her: this is how it ought to be.

Losing All…

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There is a wall behind that keeps on pushing me forward. Even if I stand still, it pushes me, and in front of me I see an edge which promises oblivion.

Every word I utter is hopelessly splashed on the moving wall. I cannot stop it, and neither can you.

The first thing I lost when the wall started pushing me and shoving me towards that edge was my sense of smell. I did not realize how much a nose can be vital and imperative to my daily life. But soon life held up a whole new meaning for me. I’m not a dog, how much of life could change if I lose my nose?

Speaking from daily routine, I lost my appetite almost immediately. What I could not smell, I could not eat, and when I forced myself to eat, I found no pleasure at all. The wall gave me its first push and woke me to my ephemeral nature of my existence and my experiences. My girl, that sweet little girl who I love so much, suffered so haplessly because of my damaged, slowly dsyfunctioning brain. No smell of hers I could ever praise, and no smell of mine I could ever sense. No fine smell of spices or other cookery I could enjoy, and consequently I could not please her. I missed her cigarette fuming hair, the odour of her body as we devoured each other like two maniacs in a Leopold von Sacher-Masoch novel. My failing nose disappointed her and marked our home with a sensory bleakness so alien to us, yet so daunting in its unwanted presence.

It seems the more the wall advanced and progresses, the more I regress. Towards that edge that promises a truth I do not want to know I am forced to go, but aren’t we all heading towards the truth beyond the horizon, which we first only slightly graze with the deaths of a mother, a second mother? A father? An aunt? The truth comes when the real finally becomes banal and superfluous to the extent that we do not miss it anymore; the truth is shown only when we are so familiarized with the real that we see it but do not regard or recognize it. But in such an analysis of truth lies my misery. My sickness forces me to miss what should not be missed. This is the only reason it is called a sickness: it incurs unwanted feelings of deep nostalgia.

I thought it would stop at the sense of smell, but soon, my damaged brain effaced my sense of taste. What little appetite I had left was squandered. In front of me lay a plate-full of penne pasta soaked in tomato sauce. Small chunks of cooked tomato were visible between the pasta fragments, luscious and delicious. A thin layer of cheese melted on top. I took a first bite and could barely stand its uninviting tastelessness. I added salt but to no effect. I added more salt, and yet the pasta tasted of utter drabness. I added ketchup, but still, the taste remained the same, so I tasted the ketchup on its own, and the taste remained the same, the taste of stale nothingness. The sudden realization made me vomit, and the vomit tasted the same. When a moment in life comes when vomit and ketchup taste the same, then something is definitely wrong with your body. Doctors conducted tests; doctors analyzed tests; doctors told, professionally and seriously told me the ill-fated news, and on that night, the home which protected two loving people—my sweet little girl and I— became the ill-fated house of Usher. My wanton presence haunted the house, and she suffered with me, loyal to my state of mind.

I passed restaurants daily, saw the bakery vitrines almost every morning, but I could not smell nothing of what I saw. I tried desperately to remember the smell and the taste of cheesecakes, of layers of chocolate over layers of chocolate topped with vanilla icing; I tried to savour taste and smell through memory, it worked only faintly, but when I took a bite, it all gave way to nothingness. Soon, my memory offered me nothing to savour, none of the food, none of my little girl’s skin, nothing I could enjoy, even retrospectively.

Anosmia. Ageusia. These words the doctors said. But the most important words were: tumour and brain. Cancer. No chance of surgery. Radio – or Chemotherapy. They told me to be prepared for anything, and in line with my previous symptoms they said: be prepared for hypoesthesia, or loss of sense of touch, loss of hot and cold. They told my sweet loving girl to always keep a good watch for me, always keep me eating as required; always keep me warm enough; always keep me in a safe state. They wanted her to be more and less of a mother. They wanted my lover to become my mother. I rejected chemotherapy.

I was morose and melancholic. I had no reason to fight anymore; the push of the wall was too strong for me or anyone to attempt to stop it. My verdict was: Sick For Life. It pushes me. It shoves me to a place I do not want to be. Unrelenting, unforgiving, inexorable.

I Am Cancer.

I stopped eating; no love of mine could convince me to do that again.
I started vomiting air so powerfully, without any prior warning from that old friend, nausea. While vomiting I became air hungry; I suffocated on the emptiness within me.

I became frail and weak. The wall was sweeping me towards the edge like a particle of dust on the road to awe, a speck of dust without will, without force, without life. The house of Usher became empty, that sweet loving girl of mine left me, but it was I who left her, to talk of “truth.” That storm of death camping within the house made it an unbearable place to be in. I cheated on the now-odourless, now-tasteless little girl with my sickness. Sick until Death. Sickness married me.

The wall is pushing me over the edge now and I’m not trying to hold on because I see the truth, and the real does not exist anymore.

In that final moment I have, I think: I lost all to gain an unsatisfactory truth and an awful awe.

Invective, In Vain…

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Spoken verbiage of promises and paeans, have become only erstwhile abstractions upon a reprobated mind. I find that I have been worshipping a God Almighty who offered seasoned wine and endless ceremonies of intoxication. All to no avail.

Insidious were his sweet hymns which lured me into the dark woods. Plump tree trunks condensed and cluttered together; the rich branches grandiloquently absorbed all light and sound. Her darkness is vacuum, and his voice comes from within me for he is the illusory dagger which leads me to such dissolute actions. I made my way through the immutable path which was paved for me between the staunch trunks of the trees. The lit path I saw, but my destination was unknown; that is the order of life, a broken horizon holding nothing but a vicious languid freefall-freedom. Such is the path people who are without inhibitions walk.

I followed the voice of my inner acolyte until I found myself upon a spacious greensward. I found it to be a theatre mimicking my incomprehensible rage for I saw nothing with meaning, nothing with reason; only the sedge and rush and grass, vehemently wavering back and forth, no progress nor growth, contrasted the stillness of the dark woods behind me. I walked through the greensward, but now the voice of my acolyte went mute. I looked askance at the red sky and cursed a God who had failed me, a God I now had trouble believing in. I closed my eyes and fell on the ground: freefall, no inhibitions, nothing at all: no promises or paeans were left for me.

My eyes opened to see a vast greenery spread upon the sides of a valley which was separated by a still black river. A sheath of mist covered the waters like a translucent piece of white cloth, seducing me to dive in it like the deep black abysmal eyes of an enchanted worshiper. So I leaped into the river like an amphibian predator; I dived deep into the eyes of the seductive enchantress; I marauded deep into the abyss until I saw the light of the surface no more. I attempted to rise again, but sea weeds wrapped around me and pulled me down. Darkness reigned from within and without. I closed my eyes and saw the reflection of the blank outside world…   

…I opened my eyes and found myself surrounded by a matrix of white shining numbers. A high piercing sound ran right through me like an arrow. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, so I closed hoping to attain a sort of relief, but the darkness within could not hold off the light without. I shouted and pleaded for the sound to stop or for my ears to go numb, but no ministrations would comfort me, so I walked on, hands on ears and eyes closed, through the labyrinth of white glaring numbers. As I walked through the field of numbers I realized that there is no salvation promised for me. Atonement is impossible and deliverance is unattainable. Numbers I could not understand and nature I was not part of anymore. I am alone, alienated, put aside. I am human and no longer known. I am estranged.

I see the end: I will be drained in and out; i will disintegrate and dissolve into emptiness; i will crumble like an old jug; i will break into sixteen million little particles of unknown, unfelt dust. This is a narration of imminent and inevitable forgetfulness.

No verbiage of promises or paeans I sung will ever be heard or heeded. I will not be forgotten, for I shall not be remembered. I never existed as soul, as flesh, as mind, as thought, as action. I am not and will never be real in falsity, for I am not found in a world of truth, but in a world of emptiness.

Genesis

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Read It At Your Own RiskI’ve been treading through the corridors of these thoughts for a long time now. The more I walk, the closer the walls get to me, the shorter is the roof. It is about time I say it, without letting the pendulum swing any more. I must not be buried and squashed by the walls. Finally, I must act.

They are thoughts not easily expressed, not easily felt. It looms and controls and drags you through a dilated sense of time which you can never be habituated. They slowly ooze out of you, silently at first, then, like a rash, they start itching you, irritating your skin, staining your reality with their heavy presence. Your whole life, day and night, becomes a swamp for those thoughts that turn your face upside down, all the blood gushing through your eyes and nose and ears. Belligerently you try to reverse it, but it won’t do. These thoughts dress your head with their despotic crown of thorns.

You cannot cry. You cannot laugh. You cannot speak. You cannot look with easy eyes and you can never lavish your saddened heart. You swallow your tongue and stare blankly into the daily events that occur around you. You become a neutral spectator, bound and tied by Thoughts; staring face down into the deep, searching for an end, but there is no end, and there will never be a catharsis.

Every day, the cycle begins again. Dull and dry mornings, dull and dry evenings. Meaningless days and squandered nights. Spirit never free, skin peeling and wrinkling by the hour; hair falling and muscles failing. Reality gilds these thoughts with its fakeness. There is no truth.

The crowd, all as one, pierces every barrier with its feeble laughter and it drives your mind, heart and soul to sin. Anger stays inward to become the fuel of your violent imagination. Violence becomes your deliverance.

In truth, how can anyone live in such a world? I’m not talking about the inequality of opportunities; the pollution; the gravity; the vicious morals from hell; the poverty; the mental, physical and international violence; economical problems; the scarcity of resources; world hunger; AIDS and cancer; pedophilia; homophobia; drugs; taxes; abuses; lousy welfare systems; unemployment; paradoxes; nuclear arms race; racism; secularism; sectarianism; corruption; politics; materialism; extremist spirituality; pornography; tyranny; uncontrolled freedom; gun trade; fanatic Islamist terrorists; fanatic Zionist terrorists; the Israeli-Arab conflict; the oil crisis; consumerism; conformity; decaying music; decaying youthful minds; decaying adult minds; deforestation; psychopaths; narcissistic schizophrenics. I’m talking about the fakeness: the Russian who does not speak Russian; The hobo who owns three villas across town; the indebt wana-be yuppie who drives his new four-door Porsche Panamera; the slut-in-disguise university student searching for her perfect target; the mindless youths who ride the tides and drift without any serious thought of anything; the mindless youths who think they have it all sorted out, who refuse to be politically affiliated, who think everything is a conspiracy, who think that having an empty and unstained paper has the power to change things; the mindless youths who think that by being politically affiliated they can change things but do not realize how impotent their own package of thoughts is because they’re so stoned and high on party slogans and blue skies; mindless youths who think it is cool to be depressed, to be chemically imbalanced, to be mad, to be on the verge of collapse, who feign depression and madness in order to rise up in the social ranks of society; mindless youths who wear Ralph Lauren shirts just because it’s more esteemed than everything else; vegetarians who refuse to eat meat but suck on dick like a it’s their only source of respite. Nearly everyone wants to be the next pathetic fucked-up case. Nearly everyone wants to be involved in a disaster in order to be the one who survived to tell the tale. Nearly everyone clutches every chance to feel down, to feel sympathy, to pity other people. Nearly everyone tries to benefit from the death of a close friend or family member. Nearly everyone wants to be nostalgic. Everyone suffers from fake psychological disorders and traumatic events which they try so hard to forget, but the memory is so light it can be included in a comedy script. Everyone is obsessive compulsive; everyone has attention deficit disorder; everyone is a retard. Everyone is a deviant now: the male who fucks a male, the female who fucks a female, the female who fucks a male while the female fucks a female, the male who fucks a male who fucks a female, the male who fucks a female while fingering a dog etc. Our whole world is a simulation of how life should or shouldn’t be. But you’re not even alive because you are all appendages to the inanimate external. You are all replaceable products! You are all mass produced.

It all angers me. It all triggers violent imaginations in me. These imaginations overflow.

I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.

My first victim, a teenage girl coming out of school, barely thirteen years old, talking on the phone, talking to, and not with, her boyfriend, talking without worry, talking so merrily on her shiny black six-hundred dollar mobile phone. I followed her as she walked and talked without a care. I waited until she finished talking. I waited until she walked under the dark shadow of a tree and I snatched her. One arm to her mouth, the other to her wait. When I snatched her I got turned on. I did it quickly. No rape, just murder. Behind to a big green dumpster, I knocked her unconscious. I threw her phone and purse in the garbage. I pulled the kukri knife out of its sheath and I started. I killed her quickly death by cutting her throat. The blood poured. I raised my hand and started hitting her neck with the edge of the knife, trying to decapitate her. After three strong hits, her neck was obviously separated from the rest of the body even though they were still connected through rivers of blood. I did the same to all her limbs and then I carved a long line that divided her body in half. I left her bloodied, fragmented and mutilated body in the dumpster and put her head in the hard cover guitar case I had with me. I walked very calmly away. No one had seen me and my raging heart and excited mind assured me that I would do it again. My hand did not even tremble.

I was born again that day. The new genesis of my liberated self and my liberated world. The genesis of Sheriff Jaroudy.