No one is coming, all my aspirations are romance, I thought I had some divine spark. The raw material that could have made me unique, special or important. It is defeatist to realise your victory is an illusion, or is it realistic to understand that you are neither large or bright enough to peel back the shadows more than what has already been done? To add, I am directionless, I reach into the dark hoping that my aimless folly finds luck. Human impact is accumulative, the assemblage or attrition on that immense rock of progress. All I seem to be able to do is speak in poems and pseudo-symbolic purple prose. So, I will try and speak plainly from now on. I am primal, I crave extremes, I endlessly create identities that I inhabit. More than a social actor, I take it home and live in it. These personas I inhabit die fast, but leave enormous impacts. They are prone to resurrection at later dates, when the current costume grows stale and there is no new one to wear. The true spirit, the primal voyeur, is always still me. But, the facade intoxicates even my soul and it is only when what I am begins to transform my costume that it is time for the change. I am violent, extremely so, my internal violence is unfortunately the most creative thing I possess. I am a rung above good at many things, but never an expert, the jack of all trades remark rings true here.

No one is coming to save me. To be bare, I do not deserve to be saved. I cannot convince myself of religion, I see the poignancy of Christ but I cannot believe salvation is attainable. I think if given the option to be saved, I would earnestly refuse it. It would be more noble to accept no salvation than to put my existence on the line for a chance of it. Like Julian of Norwich, it strikes me as more honest to ask for three wounds and face divine obliteration by a glimpse of the martyrdom Christ went through. Rather than to wrap yourself in goodness and hope your unchallenging existence is enough to eke through the door of Heaven. Or the Atheist is right, and it is all physics and energy transforming in the infinite, qualia and narcissism. The ability to feel toil is supposedly its own reward, suffering and exhaustion means you are sentient. Like those in a coma, living an entire life simulated by their unconscious mind only to be awaken to the reality that they live in something else that is conscious for them. Materialism is tangible, everything else is fancy thought and masturbation for the cultured mind. Imagine Sisyphus happy, that King cursed to endlessly push the boulder up the hill only for it to reset at the end of every day. That is us, and we have to imagine ourselves happy, or something like that. Toil for toils sake, a slave who takes pride in the shackles. Again, with salvation, if I am a happy slave then why would I want to be free? If I acknowledge the lie of it all then it means that there is an end, the boulder can roll over the summit. Progress is the sustenance of hope, and it is all an illusion?

No one is coming to save me because they cannot. You against me, the weight of sin and the price of salvation. On a societal scale, they call this the social contract. Politics is everything these days, it is all anyone wishes to interject. It is all talking at you, not with you. How can it go from infinity and divine architects to states, conflicts, economies and fear-mongering global suicide. I suppose we are all just trying to figure out who really are the chosen ones? Cultures and creeds, empathy and vengeance, this all sounds like gymnastics to dress up the tribal, primal desires. My stream of consciousness is erratic, but to present it as anything else would be dishonest to anyone reading this. As a child I would draw elaborate battles, often accompanied with the soldiers most wounded on their own separate sheets. This caused me to be questioned, probed about the violent images I enjoyed drawing. I imagine this has happened to many an innocent child, boys that loved physical violence and gore. Politics presents itself as an alternative to violence, yet is often a continuation of it. Sacrifices, all of this must be accounted for, the ledger of peace is violent currency. I listened to an educated older man, he told me women tend to prefer emotional violence, reputation destruction, instead of beheading, they would prefer a plague of fatness, to me it seems too tame to merit the word ‘violence’. Maybe their enemy’s child comes out disabled, are they violent enough to wish that? Think of two sins, to what does each sin owe? Save me for I have sinned, I killed a man! Or, maybe, I ruined a life through malicious gossip! The latter seems rather trivial, but both hold the weight of essentially ruining a life, and the atonement one with empathy would feel the need to strive for afterwards. If salvation is scaled, then that implies that there is a hierarchy to the cleanliness of the soul. How are the souls of abortions saved? They die before they are even capable of a sinning thought. A pure victim of violence in the truest sense? I only half-believe it. This is a problem the church have quarrelled over. Billions of them, all up for judgment? More than every fatality of every human conflict since the dawn of battle itself. How killing a child has become so impersonal and systematic. Some call it child sacrifice, others a necessary evil, or merely the biological rights of a woman. I am not neutral. I drew those masses as a child, anonymous vast souls. And then I drew the individual, the wounded, the identity. I wonder why one was worthy of its own sheet of paper, and the others, not.