Love-Letters From The Anthropocene #4

(Stream-of-consciousness psychography from the edge of the eschaton.)

I was young once. Surrounded by broken things. I remember being very small, standing in a massive pen.

A crib, of course.

I was stuck. I could grasp the bars, and look around at the room I found myself in, but I couldn’t leave. I was trapped. This is my oldest memory. I was a baby.

I’m older now, and I’m still trying to get free, but now I can’t see the bars. My hands cannot grasp them. I cannot see beyond.

I feel old these days. I’m tired. My options are few and getting fewer, like God tightening his fishers net. That fisher of men, prime harvester of souls. God is a guitar case, bereft a guitar, promising music and memories of glory. But the strings won’t play ever again. Not for me. I have snapped them, folded them, flossed my teeth with them, cleaned myself of filth and fear only to have the bleeding recesses once more grow raw and infected. Weeping.

I am on fire. I fuck. I eat. I dance.

The world in my palm, supple tectonic curves cupped and held up to my eye. I can see me. I can see everything. A flower sits at the edge of magnificent forest, the only thing that sees me back.

I crush the planet between my hands, dust flowing between my fingers, motes in my brother’s eye.

I am on ice. I sleep. I wait. I think.

It doesn’t matter anymore. I am dead. I am the living dead, meat-zombie flesh piston, pulsating ever forward with the momentum of a million dead grandparents, a billion ancestors. Death is my gasoline, the fuel to my fire, proved daily at every meal. Burn, burn the flesh. Chew them all. Let Dog sort them out. Short them out. Shit them out into graveyard planets lacking tombstones.

I have lived as dust for so long that I can no longer remember the simple bliss of summer breaks. Each slot in my brain has been repurposed, sculpted by a thousand pin-dancing angels, dollar signs in their eyes. They are carried on the wind that has accompanied, sat at my shoulder, chilled me. Chased me. The rumble in my stomach and ever-looming threat of Mammon’s gnashing teeth is no song with which to sweeten. Are you not sick of death throe lullabies? Or have you forgotten what silence, lacking our wails, sounds like? Just as you have lost the scent for food and fire, a taste for rain?

What does it feel like, can anyone tell me, to have your heart beat faster from the beauty of a broken chain?

To whom I write, my condolences on our shared fates.

From the Anthropocene with love,

Equanimous Rex

Equanimous Rex is a writer,  podcaster, and esotericist. He currently writes non-fiction articles for Disinformation and Modern Mythology. Additionally, he is the creator of The Witch-Doctor serial fiction podcast, which is a part of the Fallen Cycle mythos. Equanimous enjoys wandering verdant forests, playing with dogs, and cascading ontological shock.

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