death sentence (stream of consciousness)

 your life is a death sentence. 

these beautiful buildings, with their clean marble floors.

the board rooms, the suits, the team building meetings. It makes me puke, the putrid smell of inauthenticity. 

Bitterness. As you go home, to your perfect bourgeosie lifestyle, a temple of plastic. Aesthetic tupperware

as you cook the cuisine of some culture that got appropriated. As you taste the pasta to make sure it is 'al dente' and you pass a snide remark about your friends and gossip about the newest developments to your clique. 

The beautiful kitchen counters, as everyone tries to keep up, the furniture you appreciate, the skincare routine that has been 'working wonders'. your skin looks so good lady! that doesn't change the fact that it will decay and go to death. Freckled, wrinkled, disgusting with warts and protrusions or perhaps just old and in a flash if you're lucky. 

Into the ground, burnt to ashes, eaten by vultures depending on your culture. 

Where are these wrods coming from, and why am I bitter. 

Your life is a death sentence,

the saturday evening tennis, the girls you swipe on, their beautiful eyes, their enticing bodies. The limerence of a prince charming who will rescue you. Eveyrthing is a lie. The office chair you sit in, ergonomic as you bite down on dessert from "this new place in town that YOU GOT to try". You are dead, and served on a plastic platter. It is happening every day. It is happening as you read this. Nothing but another blog, to adorn your pallace of intellectualization. 

The body of your ideas has been aesthetized, commodified, whorified, pimped out as much as your real body. Pump it full of creatine and whey and flaunt it to the world like a whore and they will definetely pay you for it. That is what we accomplish with our minds today. 

Power seeks power. Sex is power, and that is why attractive people are so strong. Famous women holding the obsessive fantasies of an entire populace in their hand, literally holding them down by the balls. I cannot post this anymore, for this is too raw a reading of the thoughts in my brain, but maybe I shall do it anyway. 

Your life has been a death sentence uptill this point. In all your aesthetized travel as you try to learn the 'truth of the other cultures". You don't want to know that they're as disgusting as you, they hierarchize, demonize, stratify maybe even more than you. No, you romanticize them or hate them without ever getting to truly know them. 

You have always been stressed. Even when the neuroticisim was not through the roof as you were pigeonholed and cramped in a crevice of your imagination, unable to see the light beyond the alleyway. Even then, you were subtly being trapped and violated, by comfort, by routine, by repetition by mechanism. 

Is there repentance, is there revelation? Can one be freed from it? Your defiled ears do not comprehend the tone of these questions. Not to open up a space for truth, but rather to seek like a beggar always for a quick fix. Like a disgusting prince addicted to heroin, ready to trade in the brilliance of his destiny for a speck of nothingness. 

Your life is a death sentence. 

Forever to be conditioned. Enchanted by ideas, that guide you away from truth into lands of make believe. Be it fantasy, fiction or any facet of the human experience, stimulating the faculties of your imagination. The subtelty required to comprehend truth has been beaten out of you mercilessly and tirelessly until nothing remains. If even a speck of awareness remains, it is the shiny pokemon, a spark in a destroyed, abused, negligent childhood. It is a miracle, a proof of "god" or whatever is holy merely by virtue of existing.

Do you value that? and what it demands of you? Human excellence? We are all whores and I do not say that to be provocative. There is nothing moral or normative about it. about anything. All our morality or passing judgements are like scratching the ocean with a fingernail or punching the sun. All our frameworks, the structures through which we try to put life through is like trying to put a desert through the eye of a needle by picking up each piece of sand. 

All our conversations are meaningless garble. Books are garbage in garbage out. Eyes and intonation communicate truth. To look another in their eyes deeply and not flinch as they see the depths of our experience. Can we even do that anymore?

Marvel in the absurdity. Watch closely as it destroys like a chlid all the ways in whcih you make meaning of the world. Don't make light of the game of life and defile it by thinking that you have understood it. Actually who am I moralizing at. Do what you want. This is but a reminder to myself, a marker of a mental state I have been in. 

It is not pretty, but it is beautiful in its ugliness. The stark and sheer harshness of a wooden stake that impales you or the white bleakness of an avalanche that engulfs and buries you. Shave your head and run away to the mountains, there is nothing for you here my friend. Am i crazy for thinking this? Or is this perhaps nothing but another thought I have been conditioned into, romanticized and sold. 

this text is in bold

and I don't know why i'm rhyming. 

prose and poetry, this is two timing

the words are flowing 

and my screen is glowing

its quite late and now my keyboard is slowing

as this passage turned into a poem

and now maybe I shall post what I have written

smitten 

by the purity of truth I have produced

whorified

by the performativity of this poem

whorified

by my need to show em

put a marker in the mountain

gluttony at the eternal fountain

of truth as it spills over

and I brought some for you again

the elixir of life. 

I don't care if you want it.

I'll be back for more tomorrow.

or maybe not,

but later for sure

even if I'm a corporate whore

that is easy repudiation, and moralizing again. 

I don't want to bother with rhyming again

but now I need to write this way

even if I don't try

THe well has run dry

or so I think

I don't care, I might need a shrink

I needed to stop writing that poem, because once the words started flowing they would uncoherently try to explore ideas which were not related and I didn't want to explore. 

Art can be useless many times. I don't care about the philosohpy of aesthetics. How does your art inspire me to conquer my suffering?

It doesn't, it can't. The probability of that happening is neglifible. For you to reach through the void and pull me into your headspace. To give me faith, to give me that semblance of connection and jolt me into that presence. 

It's just pretence then. Your art to me is but a dick measuring contest of how much skill you have. How mcuh you have trained your body mechanically. But what good will that do for my life? Does it change the way I breathe, talk. Does it change how curious I am about what I study, what my posture is like when I sit?

Nothing changes, nothing improves. 

You may be god, but god is also already dead.

Namaste.