Recollections on an allegory, a music album, and a catatonic state, from my younger years.
Humanity enters an irremediable state of breakage. The peace of Earthians remains ensured by the meticulous removal of the ill and of the mad, their natural system spoke of in shrouds of charity: “We must give them the opportunity to die with dignity” with palpable callousness. It has been three hundred thousand years since the path was laid, along it was placed our continued torture xeroxed into the forward eternal. A hole is dug, the freshest ones are thrown onto the next of kin. The reeking pit is filled by a grain of sand each day; a new human, each day, follows the order, and in having done their civic duty, each day, is rewarded, and the inconsequentiality of a meager grain, each days, weighs not on their shoulders. We’re being turned to concrete! Under our feet, the writhing grinds to a halt perpetually as the bones break under our collective mass. The fragments and debris pierces another, the blood and bile drowns another, the decay and bacteria feeds the sand; some vegetation has appeared. And the distraught who make their way to the air clamor “let me end this!”, before a rope is thrown from the sky. These august humans give out euthanasia! “If only the demented were so magnanimous, alas they choose to stay in their little hole” the wind said, tauntingly relaying the overworld’s beings message.
I lay in an infirmary bed, my conscience drifts back and forth, and the same music loops in diligence. “Dies irae, dies irae…” rings away in my ears, and devolve into noisy aggression, the barbarity soothes me. I awoke in the middle of the piece, but find no strength to rewind the song. I lay in an infirmary bed, and none have dared to talk to me, as morning transitions into day. I remain catatonic, the same music loops in diligence; back to the beginning: Incipit Tragaedia, my beloved, growls and bellows deeply at me. I revel in my incapacity for a moment, my spirit drifts, an hour passes; I could not enjoy my divine to the fullest. In a dream, I bear witness to myself from a distance; this I is decrepit and mad, it walks next to a canal. In a blink, it jumps into the water and we choke. I choke on my spit, I have lost the strength of instinct and reflex, all motion hurts. “Dies irae, dies irae…” now blares into my eyes, my heart follows that of the sound. The saliva overflows from my mouth, I am drowning. The convulsions, after a while, turn me on my side slightly, nausea grows within me. I throw up and hit my head on a steel sink on the way down, as day transitions to evening, I lay on an infirmary floor. My headphones disconnected slightly, my left ear becomes deaf, my right gorges on parasitic static; faintly, Incipit Tragaedia, my beloved, returns to me. I lay in spit and stomach acid; no nurse was there to retrieve my catatonic body, I felt seen.
The pit overflows of sand, and of concrete, and of flowers, and of blood, and of bile, and of me. I climb up the mountain of flesh into the realm of humans. In their fields are strewn other, similar holes, some of them filled to the brim. The ground of earthians is built of the psychotics and of the invalids. They notice my intrusion, part flees in terror, part runs to me weapon in hand. I refuse this. I rise above the world of humans and into that of deityship, as deserved. I call upon my kin to join me, all ascend to me. In coordination, we dismantle our oppressors, as deserved. There are no delusions, in our field truth is restored; peace everlasting threatened once more by bands of armed humans, I declare the Time of Hatred.