Unaccountable

Sometimes I almost get intoxicated by the power I have.

Which is silly, seeing as anyone would retort I don’t have any power at all …or do I? Who really is behind this mask? No, obviously no one. There is no one behind this mask; I am the mask.

When you have a mind mutated enough, collapsed on itself, I don’t know, the sensing spread of you congeals. Where do you begin and end? Whatever’s underneath my skin may as well be stone.

The more that people drop off in my life the more delirious I get about it. It’s so intoxicating to no longer be pressed for glamor.

I don’t have to feign anything. My face can compress as the statue it’s impressed into. And I’ll drag the machete along the concrete, enjoy the rivets it clinks and travels up the handle rhythmatically, over tree stumps and into the ravine splitting. However many stray vines to slash so the path will close itself behind me.

Why wouldn’t you sit cross-legged with Buddha, on mountains of skulls?

It’s not Jainism out of sure overflowing love. Just complete and total annihilatory indifference.

By near presence all of your thoughts and ideals will get vortex’d. You’ll only be able to stare ahead and feel flesh as less than flesh. It will crumble every single thing you stand for, and it’s not like I’m the one doing it. It’s inevitable.

It is just simply inevitable.