I think to some degree I’m a dirty whore, a wretched whore beyond redemption. I don’t want your pity and wouldn’t ask for it – I’d despise it above all.
I’m irredeemable and desire only to wallow in my own filth and stir about in my own mess, and then after, to move deeper and deeper into my own depravity, revelling in sin and decay… and every dissolute and degenerate.
I’d choke on my laughter as I’m met with a curious stare. “What is this beast” I might hear them say. I’d come to the surface and take part in an outer world – a more solidly… mutually-constituted reality – only for these brief moments where I might see myself reflected.
I think I’d then go on, hunched over, and devour with a certain ecstasy and certain abandon some decaying flesh. Until the role might catch up with me… until I did indeed see myself from the outside… upon which I’d wonder if it wasn’t always a show. If I hadn’t been so depraved, so wild and free, for them.
This ragged and unkempt creature in the next moment might lie on its side, exhausted, looking recently exhumed. And its gaze might settle in the distance or on a clump of earth.
As if he’s been found out. The curtain falls. The veil is lifted. Everything seems so unromantic.
Nothing means a thing. How grotesque. Still, you can’t wallow. That means you’re defeated. Hold it dear if you can then, this lack of meaning, and act out of it, from it. But you don’t convince anyone of the strength of your resolution or of the clarity of your vision through despair… unless it’s a true sickness unto death.
And you are not yet so consumed by grief.
He sighs lightly “why can’t I be me”. The onlookers let out a boisterous laugh, and it’s so contagious and so on point that he joins in. In brief moments he embraces the comedy of it all and thinks there is a possibility of salvation.