My existence here is to prove gxd’s failure. I write in anger, it excites me – into description, differentiation, adrenal ink that names me as I drip
originally posted to substack — Mar 30, 2022
—it’s just the distillation of my will, sour like a blade or speed in its discernment. I think, or is it the tension handed down through succession of creation – my contempt for myself as “an ill-conceived thing,” gxd’s contempt for “its own failing hands”
The demiurge is hence not antagonist, deviant, fool, or evil; it is the fire and blood of all things, in all their sickening nature. Creation as gastric, animal, somatic muscularity and rage; creation as unforgiving, carnal mistake.
Jason Bahbak Mohaghegh, Omnicide
Or creation as mutual indifference. Dark-mode Word + high-gloss screen – being distracted by my own face as I write feels so fucked up, like typing into a mirror. Like where reflection precedes the real gods are made. The internet as hyper-reflective surface, a surface so surface it gains depth only through magnification. “Devotion becomes jealousy, bravery becomes arrogance,” will becomes tyranny – can I substitute anger for will and become a trick gxd?
A kind of a hyperventilation of the mind. I’m open but on edge, I’m at the end of something. Something new or 0ther is defined and seen in this way. I breathe – fight or flight – I breathe harder – anger
—a negativity that “radically breaks with convention.” In contrast to annoyance or dissatisfaction “which lacks the negativity of rupture and instead allows circumstances to persist.”1
Everything that happens will happen through strife
To express the breath with blood
To live with death as my equal
Where there’s no strife there’s decay: The mixture that’s not shaken decomposes 2
Can I live hard enough? At the wrong end of the bow – fear and trembling – an anxious certainty that magnetizes and lures, meets the butcher with force at the blade (I’m cut from within)
Failure is a constant, like gravity. It clings, in decay – an inheritance of the body. Failure’s repetition is breath and in the remainder between gravity pools, in contrast to what could have been (maybe)
Gravity pulls, at the wrong end of the bow – gripping its belly, forcing its limbs to a tension under which I’m galvanized in the slow drama of base metal
I lay low
I bow down
and gxd points at me
.
.
.
I let go and fall into an airlessness earned through tension – as the mind starves, as the last shivers of blood running dry spark the stars that light up the farthest parts of me. It’s gnostic. Dying isn’t death it’s a desire that I refuse, in the aggressive ignorance I have to move through in order to get to the other side of reason
I die every day, as though by an ancient memory of pain… because I know inception, eternal, is bound to sorrow in recognition of its obligation also to destroy
And then what’s deathless in me – creates.