I would initially describe it as merely hurrying the sun, but that's untrue. I reached into my garden and tended it with unwashed hands. It becomes clear on reflection that, although mistake is an appropriate word, it is more accurate to describe it as a private ********** of the public good. I trespassed on property that was not mine and broke the quiet of others. Perhaps one, perhaps many. I breathed their air and distorted their reflection to create a verification of my own. Seeking the absolute through the profane, I believed my violation would consecrate the prize.
Recently a new chemical dark has descended. Maybe it was a final wager, or maybe just a moment of hedonism. I do not know if it was intended to force the door entirely off its hinges, but I know now that the mechanism is jammed. The needle skipping on the groove leaves me stuck in the static of the immediate moment. Sometimes I assume there was one last horror in the white fog, but the tape is burnt and the reel has snapped. If there is a final sin, I cannot know its shape. The slate is wiped clean every hour. What I write upon it is smudged, then washed away.
There is no use weeping for the dead self. I think pity is just another narcotic, and I have had enough of drugs. It is likely true that I am the refuse at the bottom of the river, the subhuman thing that broke the mirror. It is the truth I understand, but the sun insists on rising anyway. Sitting in the ashes is just another form of vanity. So I will hold two weights in one hand; the knowledge of the filth I have become, and the relentless necessity of hope. With no map and a compass prone to deviation, I walk forward carrying the shadow of what I broke. Not absolved, but continuing.
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 4:07 AM UTC
I would initially describe it as merely hurrying the sun, but that's untrue. I reached into my garden and tended it with unwashed hands. It becomes clear on reflection that, although mistake is an appropriate word, it is more accurate to describe it as a private ********** of the public good. I trespassed on property that was not mine and broke the quiet of others. Perhaps one, perhaps many. I breathed their air and distorted their reflection to create a verification of my own. Seeking the absolute through the profane, I believed my violation would consecrate the prize.
Recently a new chemical dark has descended. Maybe it was a final wager, or maybe just a moment of hedonism. I do not know if it was intended to force the door entirely off its hinges, but I know now that the mechanism is jammed. The needle skipping on the groove leaves me stuck in the static of the immediate moment. Sometimes I assume there was one last horror in the white fog, but the tape is burnt and the reel has snapped. If there is a final sin, I cannot know its shape. The slate is wiped clean every hour. What I write upon it is smudged, then washed away.
There is no use weeping for the dead self. I think pity is just another narcotic, and I have had enough of drugs. It is likely true that I am the refuse at the bottom of the river, the subhuman thing that broke the mirror. It is the truth I understand, but the sun insists on rising anyway. Sitting in the ashes is just another form of vanity. So I will hold two weights in one hand; the knowledge of the filth I have become, and the relentless necessity of hope. With no map and a compass prone to deviation, I walk forward carrying the shadow of what I broke. Not absolved, but continuing.
