The Scar On My Hands, The Buoyancy of Turds

Tonight I drink out of a skull shaped bottle, and I drink alone. I heard a quote once that culture is to make a drinking bowl from one’s enemy’s skull, and that civilization is to go to prison for that. So where do my virtues lay? Perhaps death is the final journey. Anyone who says that they do not have any fear of dying has never met a Gurkha. They’ve never felt the cold fortified steel of a forged hand kukri nor have they been to Nepal or have any knowledge of such an admirable race. They’ve never inhaled the mark of death nor have they coherently summarised the beauty of life. They’ve never felt the warmth of dead blood or the frostiness of flesh when your hands can separate the muscular divisions of tendons and palpable tissue. This is not the language of a grande monde society. These are spoken gestures of a bloody faced peasant. I should have been born in the days of the cradle of civilisation. I should have been a hunter and gatherer. I would have been at peace knowing that if I died sleeping in a seated position in wait, for some devious assassin to attempt to take what life I have made for myself or what future I’ve been willing to sacrifice for, I would have still been, a conqueror of my own existence.

And there you pry at a screen emitting systematic pulses of coherence and sink into it’s depth of vulnerabilities. This has become your present necessity, your only influence into this information that in retrospect is clinically dead. All life is a subway of interplaying realities that hath no choices and no command.