NOTE: This story is currently my longest comprehensive work. It contains heavy elements of autobiography and also involves personal friendships/relationships that I have been directly acquainted with in one form or another. The total projected length of this story will be approximately 30-35 pages and I will post those parts sequentially over the next month. I think the subject to be the most important of all.
One mother begs her father to kill her, while another mother courts and taunts an alcoholic asshole of white trash worth, and a third mother chooses to let a little bump grow into a much larger and denser nodule before it eventually explodes from within, and weeps blood with an arterial pulse.
And it’s also Sunday morning or Saturday night at the prime time that everyone always decides to dine out. Everyone, over and over and over, deciding to dine out at the same prime time that everyone else is also, over and over and over, deciding to dine out, distinctly because everyone else is also deciding to dine out at that same time. And it isn’t about the food and it isn’t about the location, really. It is just about the food that everyone else seems to fancy and just about the location that everyone else seems to prefer. The more crowded, the better. The louder, the better. The more pretension, the better. The more influence that is brazenly exuded, in any shape, form, or fashion, the better. Then come the predictable public outcries of astonished, dramatic dejection. “Can you believe it is this crowded? Can you believe we have had to wait so long? Can you believe that party was seated before us? Can you believe that that woman is showing that much cleavage…that that young girl is with that older man… that those people are that uncivilized?” Conversation rejected, yelling obnoxiously caressed, simply to hear your own voice trump the voice of others in the crowd that you chose to join. No one can hear anyone. No one can really talk. No one can escape the intentional distraction and obliteration of thought. Fractions of thoughts, continuous murmuring of madness, noise devoid of any spirit or meaning, louder, louder, louder, the better, sustenance lost. Forget the purpose, forget the food, forget your company, forget anything of worth…forget anything that can be savored or appreciated for simply being itself. Destroy the souls amongst you. Yell louder that they. Separate their numbers; the ones who are actually trying to think and talk and taste. Destroy any form of shared understanding, of relating to one another, of hearing, of touching, of knowing, of listening; burn it all down, because the crowd has no sustenance. Yell, because you are incapable of carrying on a true discussion of worth. Join a crowd because you can’t stand alone. Create a purpose and reason to do what you do, because you have none. Enter the crowd, because they are all lost souls, just as lost as you, and participate in the boisterous game, as all of you one-up one another in constant barrages of hearsay and tales that spew of self-idolatry and megalomania. Tell your tale of me, me, me and how scared shitless you are of anyone not in your crowd. Sow the seeds of alienation, of suicide and dejection. Sow the seeds with your crowd and water those seeds well with the same antics, over and over and over, until fruition of your nurturing madness finally destroys the soul of one, chambering gunfire, that must then, in exchange, rid the world of as many of your pestilent, psychopathic number as possible. Then, turn your head to the television and weep and wonder why, why, why, would someone do such a thing? How could they? What would make them? It couldn’t be your crowd, could it? It couldn’t be your madness… or your yelling…or your obliteration of sustenance, could it? It couldn’t be you trying to kill someone with a soul, could it?
To be continued…