We are animals that have outlived our own usefulness. We are animals that go against all intrinsic instinct for the sake of some doctrine that has been bred into our domesticated forefathers. Our senses are our only means of truth and we have annihilated all the truth they may carry. My senses do not lie, despite the illusions they are riddled with—my mind which perceives these illusions only contorts their truths into images some bastard animal within me needs to survive.
We are animals who go against all that we need to survive—we do not hunt, we do not run, we do not SURVIVE, we only exist. We exist and destroy and our destruction is not for the sake of survival. Our destruction is not as noble as a wolf ripping out the throat of a deer, or a bear tearing into a tree for the hidden beehive within it, our destruction is for destruction itself. We are self-destroying. Do other animals destroy as we, the most beastly of creatures do? I am a creature that destroys itself. All animals live—they breathe, they hunt, they fuck, they sleep, they keep going. They kill others to sustain themselves if need be. I destroy myself for the sheer enjoyment of causing myself pain. Does any other creature bumbling about in the woods do this? Does some other beat sit within its den, eyes open in panic, mind racing from memory to memory about something in the past? Does it howl out as I do at the anguish I’ve created in my own mind? I’ve evolved past myself. What was an evolutionary advantage—conscious thought—has become nature’s smirking revenge at my vain attempt to bridle it. I have become too accustomed to ruling over a world I cannot control. I have become my own God, my own devil, my own demon, and nature (the one leveling force) does not appreciate my tenacity.
I do not place my value on my heart continuing to beat. I do not find the sacred in my ability to walk without fear of a predator. And because I do not, nature has instilled something within me—hell, maybe in all human beings—to bring me back to base animal thought; she, he, it, has put a predator in my head. I do not run from some other animal because I am an animal within myself, destroying, hunting, all within the realm of my own mind. I am an animal that tries to kill itself, an animal that starves itself, an animal that causes itself physical pain and smirks.
Maybe I have tangled with my demons for far too long, maybe I have become what I’ve been trying to exercise from my own head. For my own survival I need to devolve. That which I see is truth. That which I smell, which I taste, which I feel with the pads of my fingers is reality- not the images which I have spun like a poor sky into my mind.
My eyes do not pierce through darkness, my feet do not slide without pain over rocks and carpets of pine needles, my fingers cannot tear into flesh, my legs are not strong enough to stride behind a deer. My teeth tear tender flesh, my ears catch what they wish, and my hands become hard only in cultivating useless words. I am, at my core, a useless animal. I am an animal that thinks with its mind, not with its body. An animal that invests its time in postulations and pontifications of what life is, of what nature is, of what reality is, rather than living only to live. I am an animal so domesticated I envy the creatures—the dog, the cat, the fish—that I see around me and force them into domestication. I domesticate that which cannot me domesticated by giving it some name. I name myself. I create an idea of something that needs no idealization, which exists independently of my vain attempt at control. I can tame all that is around me in my head—or I can create the illusion of tameness to make sleep easier. Does “God” sleep easy knowing that all his creations are within his control? Or did God kill himself when he learned that which he created, that which he thought was a possession rose against his own hand? We are our own Gods—do we not kill ourselves as we have created ourselves? All of the universe is meant to fall into destruction, we are the only animals who fight this. This is our own demise, for no matter how we organize, sterilize, domesticate, it all comes out in the end. This tapestry we are creating will unravel in our hands. Our gardens will rise from neat rows, our cats will prowl in this new untamed land, and we ourselves will destroy the conventions we hide behind.
Maybe that’s why we are the “smartest” of breeds in our ability to end ourselves. We can see our own inevitable demise and suicide is our evolutionary advantage—we end something meant for ultimate destruction preemptively. Or perhaps it is why we are the weakest of animals. We haven’t the strength to stomach our own illusions, our own lies, our own created truths. We have created a world beyond what is truly there—a world beyond our animal senses. We cannot survive in this world. Living in this world is our ultimate demise. But we have to live in it. The only way out of this labyrinth we’ve walled ourselves into is to cast the idea of the labyrinth itself away. But casting an idea only goes so far. The only way out is to take yourself out. It is the ultimate test of strength and of weakness. Are you strong enough to remove yourself from human created “sanity”? Are you weak enough to take away your own life? Is the life you are taking away only a creation of the human world you’ve invested yourself in?
Or are you strong enough to walk away into the woods? How much “truth” can you stomach before you overdose? I am proofreading this expelling of words (further an expulsion of some part of myself because my monsters are made of words) to further lie to myself. My “mistakes” aren’t MY mistakes—my words are my words, my criticism of myself is not my own, it is of the world around me. I am buying into a world the animal within me snarls at. What animal am I that does not live out its own purpose? What is the point of an animal that destroys itself? There is no point. I am a defect of nature. What animal finds fault in its own survival? No animal should wake up and find sorrow in its waking. What strange breed am I?