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Updated: Jan 24, 2022

I chose a particular form of masochism that ritualizes pleasure and transmutes it into pain.

It has lodged itself so deeply into my brain that it has its own voice now, and I listen to it.

Like an entity that whispers, in a very sultry voice...

If you keep hurting yourself no one else can do so.

The blessing of addiction is that you get to both have your bliss and be the master of your own suffering.

So I get to have agency over whatever darkness may arise.

And, gradually, lose control of my actions, of my will, of my mind itself.

I get to unravel in a loop whose circularity provides relief from linear life,

To feed a fire that begs for pleasure, but that cannot produce warmth.

It can only burn.

The depths of my throat, the membrane of my esophagus, the flesh between my teeth.

The throne of the prefrontal cortex stolen

By a fool who thinks he is holy

But is indeed a sad clown dressed up as an archetype

Who finds little wisdom in the madness, the absurdity

Of the impossibility to stop.

My wish now is anhedonia, the inability to feel pleasure,

and the freedom to stop sacrificing my body on the altar of its gods.

Shapeshifting spirits who don the costume of anything that can be absorbed into one's being

Stolen from the earth, incorporated.

And in my case, immediately disgorged.

A waste so abhorrent,

An offering so implausible,

It may appease but the weakest of deities.

Those who reign over the kingdom of self-pity and exhibitionism.

The emperor has no clothes, and he's dead.

I'm still waiting.

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