I'm just a boy playing the suicide king . . .
It's so different to be on the other end of this, for once. It has turned the past on its head along with all the ills and torments that I once saw as massive scars rallying down the my spine. Yes, I am the bad guy now, which I accept like a shot of acid down my gullet. But it doesn't really matter. Good or bad, I don't care to hold the side of righteous denial. I'll be your embodiment of immorality if that is what you wish for.
I have come to realise that I have been taking strides that are too large, pushing myself in a direction that could be healthy, liberating, beautiful in a sense. But I have been running across a canyon when the bridge is only half-built. I have confused destruction of my own perceptions and conditionings with the destruction of the things around me. The clear waters that I had created when I left the world behind have been muddied by my relentless thrashing . . . I was only drowning myself.
So, we try again. As we always do. Maybe now Becker and Kierkegaard won't hold my face down into the muddy grave, maybe now they will lift me into the sky as Pynchon's V2 once did. But there will be no trickery. There is no turning back from the truth. Like a firework into the sky, the rocket against Gravity, Nothingness against the ego . . .
. . . upupupupupupupupupupupupudon'tfallagainsonnyjim.