Second Nature Hatred

-a visceral journey-

by Mario Șerban

The red gaze is the real scream. Because the howling and growling are meant to be whispered. Rumbling is a bit corny. Eduard Munch is an impostor whilst on the other hand; Schoenberg is something more than an undiscovered hoax.

I am somehow dumfounded of how much distaste I can feel towards the simplest human interactions. What a bad joke. Apprehended behaviourism is embarrassing. This mild feeling of disquiet that I am ceaselessly ached by. Our utter saviour, Lethe turns everything into embers. But let’s disregard forgetfulness for a while; I don’t even remember why I was pissed. Supposedly I had an actual reason to be like that in the first instance…

I cannot think of anyone who is not a shameless leper. No one… INEFFABLY NO ONE! Icky parasites and naïve patsies picking your petty scabs, gouging stinking crusty bloody bits off your nonsensical wounds immersed by syrupy sores. Allow me to express myself: Dear irky feckless losers, keep slurping on the juice to sustain your fly-like lives, you damned muddle-heads with your crummy shredded scraps.

All the same. Just like a fucking vermin on bright white shimmering wall. You cannot merely crush them against it and wipe that shit. You are not even able to catch them in your curtain. How is it worth struggling to squeeze small creatures? That’s democracy for you. Your pale wall must be stained. Nevertheless, who knows, if you smack them on a canvas you could make millions because that’d capture the aesthetic brutalism in respect to some sprauncy tasteless rich idiots that have no idea about abstract art. I do wonder…is brown just dark orange? How are you different? Paralyzed in your ragged vestures with a broken jaw and a gagging mouth swallowing all this shit. How does it feel like? Silenced by this fussy ruckus, hurled into oblivion, chained by blooming garlands and detained by nothingness. Fuck off to McDonalds and buy yourself a smile. Make sure they miss your order because you surely respect them all when they’re given to you, right drudgy-drudge of the drudgiest? Man, fuck this crotchet. I don’t have to become the prophet or try to be whimsical either. I am simply attempting to decipher my psychosis with a pen and a paper. And I know for a fact it’s not worthless because in truth, not only that it’s my insanity testimony but it also sends me directly to hell. Free ticket to some ethereal downfall, right? It’s so humiliating for myself, like seriously, it’s just distressing to investigate my very understanding of the surrounding world. Again, what’s this catharsis about? I am not trying to accomplish anything noble or gracious nor vile, barbaric or humiliating because such ambitions bore me – but instead of achieving these sorts of reprehensible thingies, I’d rather archive them. Capturing them from my shackled point of view. In essence, I suppose nothing is independently useful, but we add the meaning value to it. There’s nothing wrong with anything. It’s just that everything sucks. Nothing too astounding, no reasonableness to be so flabbergasted. We stick on whatever our existence permits us. And slickly run away after we are done sputtering our grungy yucky mouths from sucking the life out of that innocent thing. Fickle-flimsy-feeble-fleeting-fucking foragers. It happens scandalously often yet, as I started this rant, I am still gobsmacked and breathlessly angry for no apparent reason. I genuinely do not understand this tendency…somewhat of an innate amnesia that doesn’t tolerate great ideals. Sometimes… sometimes, it hurts me when I realize how deficiently my mind’s functioning. Same old daily boring panic… this nest of frenzy ideas is rather unwound unlike the minds that pretend to blossom them. Just like sleazy trashy people in shoddy houses, fetid moments and putrid lives, malodorous bastards and noisome vapours from smouldering waste. Wastelands on top of wastelands, misuse, squandering, gaudy barbarism and godlike disregard towards the human condition. This utmost mix parachuted, sprinkled and dissipated over deserts, secreted in green meadows or planted in undecayed minds is the reason I am speaking like a schizophrenic dictionary. My course of thought makes less sense than the roundabouts in England combined. THERE IS NO LINKAGE, NO KINSHIP, ONLY SEEMINGLY RELATED INTRUSIVE SIMILARITIES. So fucking corrupted. All these meaningless posh words meant to describe my superior apathy… just for what? It started to get annoying even for myself.

Anyway, let me ask you once again: What are your artists? Well, allow yourself to get educated. If you don’t think any of those were guided by vibrant agony, lifeless joys and justified/unjustified despair, didn’t live for a bit in wretchedness (at least mentally), well then, your artists are just a bunch of entertainers, but the real clown, it would be you. Truth be told, my utter stupid stupor allows thinking this much only. Like the crippled feeling after a deep slumber. I am not sure whether it is too much or not sufficient. Maybe I am not the jester but quite possibly the buffoon. Either way, it does not affect me, you or anyone else. Everything I said or you say is meagrely meaningless. And you know why? Because our opinions don’t matter. Just like that. Trapped in between two chasms, bored of what I do not even have, disgusted by my kin and feeling terribly unimportant… when will we be released from our doubts, you might wonder? It’s not that the grapes are bitter; it’s just that the seeds are too stocky. The funniest thing I can think of is… is that in any possible world or just slightly imaginable realm because I don’t want to get sued by the Vienna Circle 2.0 or any angry Wittgenstein/Russell supporters suffering of Stockholm’s Syndrome …  anyway where was I? Don’t read it again, you will just understand just as much or as little. Anyway, the punchline was that alienation happened everywhere. And still does. Kind of self-contradictory, eh? At last, I tried to be a whimsy. I would argue that Radical sceptical hypotheses should be considered nonsensical combinations of signs, excluded from our epistemic practices. But who gives a damn crap, right?

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