Something
in this world has gone terribly wrong with me. If I had known what it had been
I wouldn't have decided to have demeaned myself by having written these words. I
have only resorted to words as a desperate and perhaps final attempt to have
understood what it is that has gone so terribly wrong.
These
words should not be misconstrued as anything other than an infernal investigation
of my insidious existence. These words have not been intended to have served as
a confession, an artistic expression, or anything else a soul might deceive
itself into having believed. If anyone aside from myself should come to have read
these words let it be known that I did not write such words with any intention
or consideration regarding how they might have been received. All of these
words will have been mine alone and they have only been intended to have served
me.
I had
decided to have used writing as a means of having explored my quandary because
of the fact that writing has long been dead. Since much of my existence had
been so heavily involved in death writing had seemingly been a naturally suitable
method for this existential-exhumation. Had I not already understood the role
of death in the course of my existence writing would have been as useless to me
as the words above every grave have been to the corpses beneath them.
My
reasons for having discerned that writing has been dead haven’t been wondrously
ground-breaking or elucidating. I’ve not been the only entity to have walked
through the tunnels and corridors in the catacombs of this world having
searched for meaning and found but words. Many more eyes than my own have buried
themselves in the pages of the great or so-called-great novels, poems, and
essays to have found nothing greater than the silenced echoes of the
unutterable dead.
My entombed-eyes
had seen how all the writers that had ever existed with any degree of talent or
potential had been plagued with death. Their lives had been no more than
prequels to their obituaries and their obituaries had been no more than a
summary of their death. The writers all died having thought their words would have
lived-on and that their deaths would not have been so desolate and vain.
Their
words had all decomposed just the same as they had. Some of them had festered
longer than others but all of them have gone to rot. There had been some remnants
of words that other writers had necromanced and attempted to have resurrected
or conjured into their own words. These necrophilic-possessions had been no
more than injections of embalming-fluids to the marrow of their
literary-skeletons.
As
their headstones have crumbled and the ashes of their pages have vanished in
dead-airs all these writers have only decayed in eternal oblivion. The words of
all these corpses have become the antiquated ghosts of decaying sentiments. They
haunt only the cadavers that have long been dead despite all these spirited
words.
I’ve
already understood that my own words will have been no different. These words
will not have lived any more than I and I had never even been born into this
world but had been delivered undead. With these words I will have but gazed
into the face of my existential decay so that I may have glared back into this
void of death and dying. If I am to have died it shall not have been without the
horror of this grim scowl having been reflected.
So
let these words be known for all that any words have ever been. Let these words
be doomed to have become the self-proclaimed death-rattles of but another
maligned corpse. Let it have been known that even as these words had been
written I had either been dead or dying. Let anyone that is to have looked upon
these words have been forewarned by those terms that have been engraved above
the catacombs that shall have forever become host to my dissolve-
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