When someone next asks me what I think of Nietzsche, I will reply that I don’t and that will be the only correct answer.
This post will be both long and short. It is not fiction but it will possess the garments of fiction. It is both personal and impersonal. Begin.
At three in the morning, the body bobbed, rigid like a rowboat, upon the ink-less black of bedsheets. Eyes, pushed open and apart by invisible insomniac bamboo, stared vacantly out into night’s grey undercurrent. The hands twitched and froze simultaneously, victims to an extraneous inertia.
Popular modern writing is not contemporary. Here we find a paradox. Certainly, the very process of composing a piece constitutes a contemporary allegiance with the time period in which it is composed? That is deduced from a simple dialectical logic? No. Popular modern writing is the process of structure distilled, an endless cycle of beginning, middle, end with no understanding or empathy or meaning. Even at best, it is simply a pastiche of failed philosophy: patchwork quilt of vapour, woven to hide us from the snow.
Where the fuck does that leave me?
The filthy, run-down, rabid railway-canvas sat silent, jaw drawn open to project immaterial production proudly into pin-pricked perception. The scenes shown were fast, yet laboriously drawn. They housed lexical diversion, diagrams, sadly sung syllables and smooth sardonic reference. They were “insane”.
The muse-song of a moment caught upon the ears of an unknown unknowing and spun vapidly throughout the babble of the stars: an invisible perception of cloud lines, vapour-trails, grimacing upon the silent sludge of the planet. In a voice tender, a sigh was let free from feeling and fell, fleeting, upon the dust of downstairs and downtrodden tarmac. The body replaced itself in the ocean. Again, it bobbed.
All writers begin as apparations, vaguely aware of thier own existence and determined to prove, positively prove, its worth. As they begin to work, they deride themselves, inexplicabley destroying the very limbs that enable them to process and perform an endless and ever changing world of characters. The process is made null: a repetition repeated as reflex. Catatonic, they catagorise themselves and, slowly, suck in the salted sycophants they saw, previously, as Satanic serpents. The process is null.