Unfinished by Silas Price

you have faced the end before. it is nothing new.

you have walked footpaths trod by the familiar, stone paved streets and carbon-based life-forms, memories of dead things one by one replacing the living soil

you have looked over the brim of the inside-out cup that contains the sea, smelled its humorous vapors, inhaled its rot and took it like a bouquet from a lover you watched the nose of the ursine giant snuffed out on the horizon, watched it light brusque and violent like a molotov crashing over a distant shore as it exploded into entropy

a diffuse light that will never extinguish, and a buzzing noise that will never shut up

one hundred billion extremities digging through earth over millions of years in order to set this example: human life is no longer precious and rare, no risk of total absolute failure, no path towards 100% boundless love and everlasting joy, no longer n + 1 but 1 – n

human life becomes the ultimate commodity in the great experiment, the great leap forward, the great awakening

which will take everything from you — your food, your home, your health, your friends, your pleasure, your freedom — but it will never take your life:

valuable, but meaningless

meaningless — you seek a vision of some total annihiliation, the great reset — it has not come to you — you have seeked it out

meaningless — you swarm like flies in the ethanol, and shelter in the fire of fleeting lust, and recite the ballads of revelation

meaningless — you sit hopeless, buzzing but never shutting up, lit up but never going out

meaningless — there is a desert that is assembled in each heart, an expanse of nothingness so vast that burns with no protection and freezes with no sun, from images of toxic lakes and polluted seas and extinguished compass points that melt away even the most tenacious surfaces

you are always falling somewhere, in low earth orbit, falling towards a surface that never arrives. all you want is the security and surety of the surface, the hard flat infinite ground with which to strike your body at beyond-terminal velocity so you can scatter your bones across flatland like a memory, like ripples in a pond

you don’t want death — you want peace

we exist in a multicolored orb, a hyper-dimensional hyper-sphere, a world of complexities beyond complexity, in which no one can expect things to happen, in which millions go about their lives in secret, with secret motives and vivid dreams and disturbing fantasies, embraced by love and rage and beauty and envy and ego and boundaries and blood we exist in a semantic nightmare, an etymological disaster, smothered in offal words, thoughts twisted by fubar’d definition, echolocation of electric pulses, songs of the heart bent by the fluid medium, voices of generations interrupted by the passage of time

we exist on a steep slope of ice, in space miniature and musculature, where decay is slow and growth is slow, where death is imminent and life is the most beautiful experience ever granted to anything in the universe

we exist meaningless and meaningful, multangular and multitudinous, demons and angels and fascists and poets and witches and children

there is no ground, no abstract plane to strike, no gods, no masters, and no peace

so anything is possible

you have walked past the lips of countless eons of death-speakers, who desire nothing but their own destruction, who scorch earth with hellfire and gasoline, who inject air into the blood and place limits on the soul, who offer no solutions and no hope, who grant only depression and pain, now you walk radiantly over the edge of the inside-out cup that contains the sea, and say

I am free.