How beautiful you were, before madness struck.
At the same age all intelligent people are stricken with the sickness of being, who was there to prop you up?
The lies of the priests, their shitty tales, their vile abuse, the insistent fucking of your brain with their criminal ideas about an eternity of fire, the scorn of the elders only interested in your asshole – those were the props. Those were the sticks that stuck and perforated the flimsy membranes of your sense of security – if at eight you were a being tossed amongst the waves of eternity, who or what would anchor you into any stability that made any sense at all...?
We are all at a loss in a stormy sea of being, we don’t need the added injury of their (the priests’, the teachers’, the authoritarian authorities’) menacing horrors, their looming tortures, their eternities of terror, even less when our bubble of being is at its most tender.
A just world would kill outright any fucking metaphysician who ever came forward with any tale of abuse against the infant.
The scum of righteousness should be skimmed and crushed into the embers and coals of a fire of authenticity and reality – “don’t you fear, infant; eternity is only for suckers” “all pain elapses and dies” “there’s no rule but what life frames for you during each instant” “let your bubble dance in the winds of temporality” “never trust a master” “never obey” “serve nobody” “name your own world with your own words” “only your words and your naming matter” – those should have been the lessons.
Plus chemistry and physics and poetry, of course.
we are the continuators... emptying the boxes, and more
