Suicide Note #4

I once used to think of myself as Whatever.
When others tried to circumscribe my identity, place an ideological category upon my ideas, locate me within a bloc or milieu, I would respond with, "...am not that, no certainly not...I am whatever. As Whatever, I'd prefer not to."

In Chicago, some silly Marxists said that I was a "Whateverist", which really made me upset.
This category of negation is sheer ignorance, for a whatever, becoming-whatever, completely shortcircuits the ideological category and denominational set of a political non-whatever.
I am not a whatever-ist, and to prove the point, I shall discontinue my life.
Non-existence is pure immanence, pure whatever.

I now pull the knife out of my backpocket and say farewell, farewell Chicago!

Singularities, singularities, singularities!
Situations, situations, situations!
Uncontrollable urges, I tumble upon rhythms

Movement, movement, movement!
Falling, perspiration, jouissance
Arms flailing, timelessness

There is no aspiration, no loftiness
Only movement, shuffling, orgasm
Multiplicities, multiplicities, multiplicities!

Suicide Note #8

Why am I so happy? I suppose its an alleviated sense of Self, no longer feeling the detriments of necessity, the prolonging of Life, the agitation of Being. Despite the circumnavigated bullying of language, I feel at ease, as if assuming myself separated from the drama of unmeditated existence, a liberation of mediocre value, though enough to ease the continual trepidation of repetitive introspection. My social character is up for question, my collective consciousness no longer paying tribute to the unfolding mediocrity of fellow comrades... I am the madness expedited, further inculcating myself within the invaluable spheres of chaotic beauty. Meaning is but a parcel, a commodity fit for exchange between the speaking animals, adjusted to appeal to the magnificent creatures claiming to have created a History.

Shall death be reassessed through the vanguard, a battalion of desperate individuals assuming martyrdom through the comedic separation of thought from its perceived construction? To what end? Irrelevant. I am no poet, though poetry is all I ever understood.

Passing shall become ecstasy, a motive ill adjusted to be understood by the contraband supplying your surveillant assumptions; you are a victim of History, of illusion, of fiction. I may be completely wrong. Though, argumentation is not my style, I only navigate paths of innocent revival. Only the conscious animal suffers from the travails of nonexistence.

Sartre philosophized existentially. I shall embody it.

If Language was not a game

Every day I lose sight of myself. Every day I feel as though ...

It's a good feeling. Maybe.

Artaud claims that all writing is pigshit.

He is right. He is also wrong.

To fall under no milieu, to be content with constant flux, to be only prey to the calumnity of history and yet feel no need to participate under its nefarious glare... a personal spiritual quest that is a means unto itself.

Autonomy? What do I mean? Create situations, navigate through the never ending excreta of human experience? Authenticate my practices, my reservations, my orientations?

If the mind could create its own space, materialize its own metaphysics, surmount a legion of the bizarre, the marvelous, a surrealism that offers no politics... I ask for too much.

I give too little.

I understand nothing, I find no problem with that. Why must even the innocent be subjected to the travails of the Reproduction? What do I mean by that.

Shall the brute, the glutton, the invert, the conventional, the ...

Fuck it. Even a blog is a source of much consternation. My sympathy lies in humanity. I am not sad. I am not happy. I shit contradictions.

Suicide Note #7

Everything just got fucked up. I became angry but never had the time to focus on anger. I began hating myself, but never sat down and considered the Self. Every time I asked for space, for some breathing room, to understand myself in relation to everything else, my parents took the active step of making those decisions for me. When I said no, that I didn't wish to fall under such jurisdiction, that I want to breath life and understand for myself, they sat me down and told me I was rude, that I was childish. Every time I said I didn't know, that I was still trying to understand, that maybe the solutions aren't solutions at all, that maybe truth only claims itself to be so but suffices to offer nothing other than its own naked hypocrisy under forced circumstances, I was told I was a fool, that I was immature, that I was inactive. When I asked for the impossible, when I offered openly to exhibit my vulnerability, I was shunned, I was alienated, I was forced to consider my own stupidity. I am so angry but I don't even know why anymore. All I wanted was space, was time, for failure is not failure for me. I never imagined such simplistic categories dictating my behavior, I never imagined myself criticizing myself for not excelling, for not being a someone. I only want to live, I want to create, I want to exercise and extend myself for all that it offers. I never did anything wrong because I never claimed to do anything right, but I was never important. Everyone, including my parents, casually took it upon themselves to correct me, to uncover my follies, to play the collective game. It will come of no surprise, I imagine, to assume that these same people will come and pray at my burial, to raise praise of my character and be agitated by my early departure. Again, they will have intervened and created a spectacle, against my innocence; but this time, they will not have me entrapped, for I will fly, I will fly away free.