Surrealist gesture

Numerous false tragedies (which always manage to last longer and remain more powerful than the true ones to him) line the shelves which surround him…

(‘Yes!’ I shout in tongues, spitting and heaving)
He is just as dead and stiff as the inanimate tomes he drowns himself inside, buried in a premature tomb of words and ideas which so simply devastate his own. Paper and ink, bound together with twine and some glue – spines constructed of dead trees which still cast a long, straight shadow. Armies of stiff colorful bibles emblazoned with immortal names and titles that effortlessly evoke enviable ideals, ideas, dreams and nightmares sewn out of reason. Tales which breed desperate self-flagellations; tortures manifested in the spirit of dispelling the artistic demons of eternally repeating eons. His (my) back sweats relentlessly from the physical exertion required of a rhythmic whipping, a bodily fluid running rivers of salt into each fresh wound, a sting, then a prayer.

The forced attrition for your digital sins.

But why the desire to burn? The reading conjures such colorful emotions and the pain of knowledge (or rather the pain of acknowledgment of knowledge) forces the hand. Turning the keys and opening doors which have been nailed shut by years of insubstantial substance. As if the small, deceptively corporeal actions you partake in sublimate the lack of real movement in your life. Pixels or pages, televisions or trees. Your eyes burn, your back aches, your wrists are trained into a typing position, that ‘pointer’ finger, that trigger finger on your right hand is used more for mouse clicks than anything else. It all amounts to reading, or writing or thinking or organizing, but more and more very little doing. Doing in a physical sense, as in you get winded when you climb the stairs to your apartment. Life is simply a constant and accelerated atrophy now. Tingling limbs that fall asleep far too fast from tepid circulation, ambitions lost, devalued and exchanged for relaxation and respite. You’re all used up before you even think about starting, working, sitting, rotting away. The world keeps turning and you remain static, a fuzzy, warm pile of apathy and hypocrisy. Outside of yourself but still so exclusive and shut-off.

Where did that take us?