At times I feel the urge to plummet into the ocean, to let her weeds wrap around me, twirling their fingers up my ankles and pulling me into the sea’s bosom; her caress of foam filling my lungs, that I might see that whole world which lurks beneath the deep, that calming, infinite, blue expanse who, despite her eeriness, stills my raging heart.
The head weighs heavy with the crown of human experience, to the point of nearly being over cumbersome sometimes. There is so much to fight, and yet we must fight. Like Bar Kochba we must seek a victory we very well may never obtain, and yet, when the time comes, refuse defeat and seize a spiritual victory few men ever see. There is so much in the heart that burdens the head. I must be Man. I must be a Person. I must be an Erudite. I must be a Hick. I must be a Lion. I must exist in the present, ever anxious about the future, and ever longing for the past. Though I know the future will soon be the present, and the present will someday be the past I yearn for, I persist like an animal without thought in this irrationality. How am I to Be all these things and not inevitably consume myself like a meteor?
I would like to spend forever in the moment of bliss and ecstasy that is the loss of virginity, the obtainment of death, or the sweetness of music and art. I believe that is the great object I will chase through this whole life. So great is art then, when it may be kissed so many times, while love and death may only be held once or a handful of times at most.
Maybe that is all I need to be. The Deflowered, The Dying, The Artist. A Saint, to be all these things. What do I care for the petty tribal conflicts? What’s the point of praying like some fetishist or pagan to false idols? Flagellants with their crosses, lost nations with their stars, shields, and crescents. The temptation to say it dances on my tongue, and do I dare? Do I dare say glory to god in the highest, that being the human experience in her fullest? For that is Heaven. That is the Kingdom, open to all Saints who might but extend their fingers to touch her. There, that is where I’m meant to be. Impaled upon the tree of life, arrows protruding from my pale, soft but firm skin, blue eyes welled with tears and turned up to Heaven, to finally orgasm on the touch of divine Sainthood.
Futurism Forever 