Song of Myself


I imagine it to be raining. The drops tap against the panes of glass and I can imagine the cold wet outside and I savor my imaginary cold-weather melancholy. I have an affinity for the melancholic: It reaffirms my instincts about sadness, which is a comfort. My instinct tells me that sadness is eternal, that it is unmoving and unmoved, that it is the ocean. Sadness is at the beginning and the end. We like to stop our stories just before we get to the sad part but it pokes out like nipples through a thin shirt on a rainy day. There are no happy endings because immediately underneath the happy ending is a sea of tiny tragedies waiting to seep out, waiting to wash our black and white photographic memories until they’re all just a flat expanse of gray.

And that’s the world.

I imagine it to be raining even when it isn’t. It’s easier to imagine it at night. It’s easier to imagine that the taps of my fingers on the keyboard are the taps of the drops of water on the glass.

I worry that I am self indulgent. I worry that no one wants to read my raw primordial brain stew. The rain washes this away as well. I want to be myself harder than anything has ever been anything. I want to be the lighthouse guiding my existence, a bright shining invisible beacon of myself, to myself. I want to blind people with my invisible radiance and incomprehensibility. I want to exceed the language I have available to describe myself. I want to be the rock so heavy that even I cannot lift it. I want to consume the world, earth crumbling against my teeth as I chew the scenery and swallow dust washed down with salty salt sea. Or, perhaps, rather than consume, to subsume, to supersede, to override the existence of everything with myself, to spread out impossibly thin and become a part of everything.

This is a piece of myself. All of my writing is a piece of myself. Will I run out of pieces?

No. This is how I am infinite. My conception outruns existence. If it exists I can imagine it, and imagine more beyond it. I am without scope and without scale, I am infinite and infinitesimal, I am a drop in the ocean, I am the ocean and I will erode this fucking mountain day by day, I will slam my body and my mind against the impossible and erode it day by day, I will erode the foundations of things that do not exist and cause the non-existent things to collapse and leave only things that exist behind. I am a reverse tsunami and I will leave construction in my wake. I will destroy nothingness. I will be a second life built on top of the first, a third on the second, and so forth. I will tower. I will do more than control, I will conceive of a world on top of the world. Control would be redundant.

Suck a dick, Walt Whitman. This song is all about me.


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