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idk how to express this in a way that doesn't make me sound like a pseud
but like i've been thinking about how history is comprised of a series of mundane events that are retrospectively given interpretive significance.
viewing my actions in this light is devastating.
i don't know how to characterize my current historical moment. the narrative mode seems inapt, so i've tried thinking about painting as a metaphor. what comes to mind is colorless and grey and a sputtering lifelessness. but somehow that feels not horrific enough.
The colors. The purple of entrails, the brown of rotten meat, the crimson of fresh blood, the yellow of fat - these colors, and more that cannot be described, cover every inch of the room in maddening array. The colors say all that needs to be said about the painter's hatred, malice, and insanity.
as in, if my actions are given any sort of attention and treated with even a modicum of significance, they are seen to be terrible, in the least extraordinary way.
even call them “my actions” is a misnomer. there are flows of energy using me as a vessel. the container is incidental.
the idea of autonomy is a spook, and nonetheless external motivations so egregious are impossible to ignore.
i want ceaselessness. i want respite from the shallow unending grindstone gnawing away at my flesh.
i’m unrecognizable, yet all too familiar. i want out.