0.0 Precursor (Caustic Excerpt)

Something in this world has gone so terribly wrong. If I’d only known what it was, I wouldn't have ever come to find myself having been debased into writing these words. From my perspective, most people are all-too eager to disgrace themselves by resorting to mere words. They turn so quickly to the empty and effortless endeavors of words because they assume that this will easily assuage their reluctant and short-sighted souls of any remorse or responsibility and avail themselves of having to invest any actual effort in the truer, more meaningful, and impactful merits of a more diligent and demanding form of action. I for one would much rather silence my sharp and keen tongue and focus my most gifted mind on taking wise and venerable actions, rather than just wafting words into the unhearing ears of oblivion. Now it’s important to know that for me- these words are just a desperate and perhaps final attempt to come to terms with whatever it truly was about this wicked world that has gone so terribly wrong for me. Gawd, how I fear this will prove to be as futile as any other fool’s foul-mouthed defiance of fate!

That having been said, these words should not be misconstrued as anything other than an insightful investigation of the insidious and almost invisible aspects of existence which plague so many of us in ways that only the most intelligent and virtuous minds can ever hope to bring into focus by devoutly directing their savant-like acuity with a monastic degree of diligence.

However unlikely it is that anyone aside from myself should ever come to have read these words, let it be known that I did not write even the most minuscule portion of them with so much as even the vaguest intention of serving any less venerable of an ideal than to bring such immortal and invisible truths into the most unmistakable clarity of focus.

Remember, these words must never, under any circumstances, be construed as some confused confession, or abhorrent attempt at an artistic expression, nor any other mangled machinations some sordid soul might somehow deceive itself into mysteriously having believed.

Of course, all these words will have been mine alone, and they will have filtered through my own unique mind, focusing on what I consider to be the most relevant and definitive truths which were experienced directly in the course of my storied lifetime, but let us pray to whatever divinity might be capable of granting us wisdom, whether such an entity or force exists or not, that these words will not be confined in sole service of my sanity like the stink of a corpse is condemned to itself in the empty catacombs of oblivion.

Unfortunately, before I can begin this rigorous recitation of those most monumentally defining events surrounding my troubled and tortuous life, I must insist upon asking for a mere moment to indulge my modest ego by expressing and explaining why I’ve come to consider writing to be so demeaning and why I’ve so self-deprecatingly decided to debase myself by engaging in this doleful enterprise.

Gawd knows, I’ve only decided to use writing as a means of having explored all the intricacies of my quandary because of the fact that writing has long been dead.

As much of my existence had been so heavily involved in death, writing somehow seems to be a strangely suitable scheme to engage in this existential-exhumation of truth. Should I have failed to understand the role of death in the course of my own existence, writing could only ever become as useless to my efforts as the words above every grave have always been to the corpses corroding-away beneath them. However incomplete my understanding of the totality of life may prove to be, in the end, I believe my insights on the nature of death and destruction should be considered as venerably as any passage or tome of scriptures.