'For my taste for death, which was bankruptcy of the will, I will substitute a death-wish which will be the apotheosis of the will...'
And I said it, what I wanted to say, my demand: To have done with the judgement of God, to have done with it, to have done. Sighing. Who could exculpate me? Leaning back, ask again: Who would be capable, on what authority? To levy no more against me the cosmic interest on an infinite debt... There is nothing so useless as the demand of utility. And no, since you ask, I have not slept well. Every night, the dream of my transubstantiation (but only a dream), metempsychosis, body-to-become-vapour-to-become-body... And then; sitting straight, wider eyes. If I could get out of this place, this narrow band of frequencies, rhythm of exhalation-inhalation. I could get away. But then what is a dream (aggregate of signs) if not the possibility of being other? Oh I don't know. Will there be a last breath? Leaning back...
For you can tie me up if you wish,
but there is nothing more useless than an organ.
Being alive, I would say, is something like a roach pressed against the wall of a blast chamber, like an energy transfer oscillating at the threshold and spitting out radiation. You didn't ask, I understand. And when they come to tell me my request cannot be fulfilled, I don't say: I won't hold up here another night, I heard my blood rattling in my ears, last night, when the dream came, or just before, as I reached the limit, crossing over... And then I'm what, an orchid, a wasp? An acephalous block, wandering vector, the clinamen taking me... I feel the fear lay hard upon me, at my neck my throat burning drawing sharp ragged breath. Am I going? I think this is the moment, coming fast. Choking choking and my fingers at my face who will take down my last report? Oh teach us to care and not to care...
I had seen birth and death, / But had thought they were different
Retrospectively, that is to say, looking back, things might have been otherwise. I could have expressed myself somewhat more clearly. If I said this (could I say it): nature only ever produces bastards, its only work is the fucked up mutation of a phenotype. There are only so many ways you can bend the bones in your back. But perhaps they wouldn't ever have understood, even this one perfect axiom: no beautiful thing ever occurred without a sublime moment of deviation. And so, we will do no beautiful things. The sun is still the sun, still the sun, above us, and will we burn off like the contaminant we are? I dream, I dream, vapour and ashes, a residue. Or, to put it differently, a life. A life.
