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Quietude of Soul

A Diary, by Τίποτα Oὔτις

Note: If anything included in the text upsets you, offends you, or triggers psychosis, please stop reading immediately, rather than blaming the author for your problems.

Entry I: Where Has The World Gone?

In quietude of soul, the demon lies. Fallen angel of destiny. With knowledge of fate yet fighting. The demon is fighting. Where have you all gone? It is written that you ought to stay, at least for a while. Perhaps I read too much. A cocktail of good and evil inebriates the world. Quite the solution, quite the mix. Why are your eyes red? Why are your eyes red? I have allergies, bitch. Why is your back slouched? Why is your back slouched? I’ve got to hide my chest, why do you think? What are we? A generation of bitchfilth, smeared in an abyss of bitchfilthy glass. Where has the world gone, but to recruit me? The Saul, the king you claim to need. The little fuck falling on his sword while his son falls on his too. The Nathan telling Adonijah he’s not the king. The dirt underneath the altar to which he clung in vain for life.

Entry II: The Fire That Midnight Brings

Amphetamine has reported to Satan of my progress and to Jehovah of my idiocy.

Owned by Phillip Morris, betrayed by Terrie Hall. The world is run by the greater of two evils. They burned us all down and ate the ashes. They fucked us in our business cunts. Charcoal nights of vomit and robotrips and hospitals and disappointed adults and a lack of hospitals and a lack of understanding adults when I needed them. I'm so fucked up that I keep returning to things with a structure of concretely omniscient people telling me how perfect they are and making me jealous and loving every second of it. They love the fire that midnight brings to the day.

Entry III: Blood Is Everywhere

My eyes are burning now, and dilated, and dysfunctional. How can these inanimate objects be moving? You stupid shit, they’re not really moving, your brain’s just fucked up.

Happiness is a gory word. When you’re happy, you’re dead. There is no life in happiness. Life is evil; life is insanity. Nothing good happens. Crowds of ignorance looking for things to be laughed and cursed at. Humanity means nothing. To be human is to want things you don’t have. To think is to be an outcast; to be mindless is to be beloved. Blood is everywhere, and people want more. To be soaked in it, bathed in it, pouring it into every orifice for satisfaction. There is too much blood in our veins.

Entry IV: Inflation

Hidden letters to a certain mother. Your baby’s fucked up. He has no heart or soul. And he likes it that way. He hates everyone and used to wish he could love them. But nobody wants to be loved. People want to be hated. There is too much love in the world. Love is now nothing. You’ve printed too many bills. Inflated your economy, Eros, Agape, Storge, and Phileo. Idiots. All of you. You have no value now.

Entry V: Ages of Pulchritude and Enlightenment

Everything is linear here, mathematic. Where are the waxes with which you colored outside of the predestinated lines? The lines those fucks made for you and said they were your authority. They are nothing. You are nothing. Everything is nothing. No thought remains in lines and graphs and numbers and letters and thought. Thought is non-displayable. Stand and watch from the outside, while the world worships their anus mouthed mammon. Nothing is beautiful but the evolutionary memories we experience of ages past, ages of pulchritude and enlightenment.

The world is on the decline now, hangover. Orgasm of revelation has passed. Chemicals drained. Pinnacle of life come and gone. All things come and leave. Like me with that last bitch.

Entry VI: The Titan Mother Life

To quiet the soul is to purge the flesh. Floods of human flesh are never released from their bondage. The levees, however, must break someday. Unless the flesh is slowly and constantly nursing the vacuum of eternity. Eternity, forever sucking on life's teat, maintaining life’s existence. To quiet the soul is to form a delta from which the flesh may nurture the vacuum. What happens when the vacuum matures, when the infant becomes an adult, and no longer desires the taste of its mother Life? Then Life no longer bears purpose, and, lacking purpose, must, by the laws of existence, be swallowed up by her child, the vacuum, the god, having become greater than the titan mother Life.

Entry VII: The Smoking Sweater

The smoking sweater. That one from the cold days of the love at fruition, and the heart immature. It wasn’t your love. It was theirs, and you were their songboy. A child. Back seat. Man and woman. The cooked up-crash he got in. The mononucleosis. Then there was her apathy. And you were the boy. The boy with burning eyes again. Spinelessness and burning eyes. Conditions for the heathen. Why don’t you believe? Boy? Bitch? Why don’t you believe? I’ll tell you why. The voice you are hearing from that onion is the Grand Desecration. Standing in the temple. Blasphemy. You don’t believe because it isn’t true. You are a saint, boy. Persevered. But loitering. Waiting for the great ripping of the skies. The quilt’s great acceptance of you. The tearing of the veil. The earthquake that tore it. The woman that tore you, waiting, worried you remain a child. I’m wearing the smoking sweater in your memory, boy. 

Entry VIII: The GVRD

People don’t die fast enough. 70, 80, 90 years to fuck everything up. Then fix it. Then fuck it up. Hundreds of times. Humans and what they make are the only things in the universe that don’t function correctly. Everything else is absolutely perfect. Being human is no blessing. It’s a curse. That the humans exist is a curse upon the universe. Sure they do some good. But a little good is worthless when everything else that everything else in the universe does is perfect. The human race. The only fuckup in the universe! That’s what our flag says! And we love it! Let’s all go be some goddamned flower children and eat out Jane Fonda while she sits on the Great Vietnamese Rocket Dildo. The GVRD for short. All the big stars use it.

Entry IX: Trivially Shelltwisted

Be my friends again this night, as you have been so many nights before. I’m so glad you are all here with me. It’s so rare that I can have so many of my dearest friends over at once. I must melt tonight. I must shut down. God, if your grace lets me wake tomorrow. I beg you. Don’t let the light blind me like it usually does. Then I can’t see it anymore. Like that thing Plato said. Something about inhibitions. I can’t remember. The angels carry me upon warm liquid gold. The taste of wine has the gold. And nothing matters. The bed floats. I rule the kingdom of ants in the sheets. Deeper become I into the bliss of angels. With the red blinking and stretching and speaking and trivially shelltwisted. I am not me; me is not I. But I will rise with dignity and strength, fall again tomorrow. Inevitable fates of if tomorrow will be. She says it won’t. “Rapture” she screams. “Rapture, rapture, rapture” she continues to remind herself. Fucking dreams.

Entry X: Not Humble Enough

Pakistani cock knives, and the wives who used them. The escape from the cloth. The black cloth and the ink. A brain eye, silver center, OCVLVS HORI. The heroes are gone and the losers too. Now we’re just a kids’ soccer game away from the apocalypse. Somebody call up the goddamn time eaters. I’m reading PiHKAL and TiHKAL and The Langoliers. Laughing my ass off. Not humble enough. Not humble enough. I think I could know them, but I couldn’t love them. I’ve got to get all these images out before tonight though. Blank slates and early winters. Romances. Not humble enough.

Entry XI: An Identity Crisis

Speeding home carless. Glass. A wooden countertop. A white powder. Don’t worry, it’s probably 90% baby powder, 10% merde de chien. Get the image? Work is easier when you’re better than you are. There’s one woman who wants me, another that I want, and another to whom I might never speak again. There are many I might never speak to again. I might never speak to anyone again. What is this “I” I speak of? Who is he? They say it’s an identity crisis. It would probably be better for you to die than to go on living without a self. When do these shadows become silent?

Entry XII: Words For Fools

Ah, the days. The sweet days of fluctuation. The days when time is a light burden but one I must carry. I wonder what they will think about it. I wonder sometimes. Maybe someday I’ll know. What a foolish expression. “I know.” Words for fools. And the basest thereof. The synapses, strong men on the loading dock, moving more quickly, second by second. Boxes upon boxes of chemicals, faster, faster they move. Why so quickly, when a life lived slowly is a life longer lived? They move to encephalitis. They don’t mind. It’s worth the productivity. I guess styles change.

Entry XIII: He Built His Own Track

Inviting over the numberlover. Smile, numberlover, you didn’t have to see me like that. I should visit the painter. Smile, painter, for the visit is impossible. Paint me something like what I think. Let your drunken mind paint the one I claim is sober, so we can say the toxins helped. Nickels and Dimes, on the train track of a one-track mind. The mind of God, but he built his own track so I don’t know. I just don’t know.

XIV: What Is Pain?

Can you tell me? What is pain? Is it the daily torture of the forgotten? The silent sorrow of the raped? What is pain? Is it the cold wind of the holy heart? The fiery will of the molten mind? What is pain? Immediacy versus prospect. Satisfaction versus fulfillment. What is pain? What a dying species, a falling breed, to consider itself so crucial. What pride, what deceit. How dare the mortals cling to mortality; how dare they claim immortality? Nothing is right. There is no way, no path, no road. Only an abyss. A gaping void, woolen whispering, weary wailing. They love the void. I am afraid of it. Never bringing to thought, that perhaps their path was right. What is pain?

XV: Ignorant Like Us

Solemnity, suffering, synesthesia. The tales of a life lost to unencumbered realism. Making scent of sight and taste of sound. Another experience, soon to end. Even the one that wouldn’t end ended. Why don’t you be ignorant like us? It is the surest path to happiness. Which ends. Who needs a means? Regardless, there is an end. Scrota defying reality. Cells of the cloaca. Fear. I am now sinking into nothingness. The great fun it is, to be someone else, to be the master of a small world. The powerless desire power; the powerful desire more.

XVI: Lady A

I won’t put down or put up anything you gave me, Lady A. Evil bitch, seductive cunt. Your lies have given and taken away all that was good and all that was evil, irrespectively. You bring together Yin and Yang, within twenty-four hours, Lady A.

Lady A: my crystal chrysalis, my powdered pig, my longing and my comparison to the worst of them all. For you are the greatest and worst of them all. I don’t know what more to think of you, Lady A. But this entry is all you’re getting from me. Goodbye, my dear, my shit.

XVII: Cum Gratia

Bless him, the son of a bitch is reading. How sweet. I bet he’s a poet. One of those Langston Hughes motherfuckers. He doesn’t do me any harm. It’s funny how so many are so scared of him. He’s probably rich. His father’s probably a petroleum engineer and he’s got a heavy inheritance waiting for him, all lobbying considered. I will inherit the mantle of the world, the blood of the world, melting from the mantle, splooging, jizzing upon its own face and calling it a volcano. I wish I were one of those Langston Hughes motherfuckers; they’ve got it good these days. But until I am what I will never be I shall stand in the cum of the earth, CUM GRATIĀ, as the unholy Vulcan distributes his abominable seed into to me against my will, and I close my eyes and pretend there is some too-powerful bidet invading me with a completely normal and socially acceptable fluid. CUM GRATIĀ.

Entry XVIII: The Bayonet

Smoke shadows now eclipse this dark world. Only a memory of the shadows that used to be. A miracle, in progress. There is a floodlight to mock the day. The rich petroleum engineer’s son is reading again. And I am still the hypochondriac. The anxious, dysthymic, addicted hypochondriac with wings. There isn’t supposed to be a long life span for fucks like me.

But her pussy calls me by name before we sleep. The lips say to stand to attention. I am armed and at the ready. My bayonet is sharp, I give my baby a warm bottle of milk. She sucks it dry. She liked New York when she was there, but she loves where she is now. Bayonet stabbing, oozing my issue into her thirsty throat. And I remain the anxious, dysthymic, addicted hypochondriac with a weapon. She is my enemy and I punish her with it. She knows she’s been bad. A priestess, whipped with my chain in this purgatory for which she has begged. And now we share the smoking sweater from the cold days of the love at fruition. She is my laughterchild.

Entry XIX: Down The Shower Drain

All I see is who I am, and my name is ΟΥΤΙΣ. I am the hairs that fell from your head: my response to the therapeutic. I was washed down the slimy shower drain. At least it’s more comfortable than the world above, where all I want is comfort. But down here I want for nothing, because no one is joining me. I can be whatever I want. And I want for nothing. I can finally die in the loneliest place, with the lowest look on my face, declaring to all that I’ve won the race. And it seems so heavenly. What is the truth? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You’re right, I don’t believe you. So does it remain the truth? If it is true. Only if it is true. It is a lie to oneself to believe that the truth is untrue, but the higher world cannot sink down the shower drain, so I am higher than the higher world. I have sunk so far, so deep, and it is cold and dark and beautiful.

Entry XX: Fix It The Easy Way

This land chafes me: a rash upon my skin, a punishment for my promiscuity. This land is a growth upon my soul, infected, festering, oozing. How evil can it become? How evil can I become? I am in pain and Ockham tells me to fix it the easy way. So I take the wide road to Destruction, a land I built from the ground myself. And I am happy on it. I bask in the perfection of my own creation, and can see why God does the same. This is pure impurity, uncorrupted corruption. And I hate it here. I hate living in the nation I’ve built. There are others here, and it’s disgusting. The sewers here are filled with blood. That’s what we shit here. Something in the water, I suppose. But water is our colloquial term for the blood we drink and shit. Perhaps that has something to do with it. Nothing is semantic in this land. Every statement is a lie.

Entry XXI: Insubstantial

Now, here we are, hanging on by the threads of sanity, remembering the sense of the past, while others forget. Here we are, losing the patterns, destroying the bondage of the physical laws of the age in which we breathed our first. Sense has proven itself both an illusion and an excuse. The illusion is found in the contemporarily lauded ability to twist words into facts that are both true and false. Sense is used as an excuse in cases when one hasn’t the ability to form an argument rooted in fact. Sense: yet another excuse to do what we want without a logical pattern of deductive reasoning. “Common Sense” is a belief held by the popular majority in a society, which makes an argument no truer than the statement that I own a plot of land in Cambodia. I do not own a plot of land in Cambodia. And it matters not which of those statements is true any longer. Truth is now insubstantial.

But if truth no longer holds value, then what does? Nothing. Somewhere along the way of our evolution, we discovered that Meaning equals the amount of value added to a substance or concept, a simple equation, simple enough for the simpletons to uncover, and destroy the sense and pattern of the past.

Entry XXII: Any Shedding Is Holy

All behavior is disorderly and delusional. Everything is sick. Vomit is the peak of human experience, the essence of all that is complete. The toilet the vomit tried to fill rejoices; it was the holy receptacle of the paramount experience. The finger that induced the purge rejoices; it was the holy catalyst of the principal happening.

The stomach is evil, but so is the rest, so any shedding is holy. The reason they question right and wrong is that you are wrong in your definition of such concepts. Wrong today is not objective. Here, it would be wrong to drink blood; there, it would be wrong not to. That must make them pagans. Of course, to pagans, the righteous are pagan. True wrong and true right are modules that cannot be disputed nor discovered, but this revelation is null, for truth is null in this age, at least to the majority—those who blame truth for falsehood. In a way, they are onto something. However, if an objective right and wrong exist, they are not cultural mores or rule-sets, either found deviant or normal, with no in-between. Rather, right and wrong are objective values to which humanity is not privy, thank God. It is truly right to live. It is truly right to vomit. It is truly right to die. But no one knows.

Entry XXIV: We Eat The Fruit

I don’t see you; I see what my mind tells me is you, so my genes can survive. Counterproductive. My mind tells me you’re a snake. I still eat the fruit around which your body slithers. At least, my mind tells me that it’s fruit, and that you slither. There must be some reason. If you are dangerous; if the fruit is dangerous, then I am evolutionarily unsound, and ought to die. But if I am the first to eat the fruit, and am immune to its toxin, then this is the point of evolution. But I am not the first to eat the fruit. What we were told by our Authority when he said, “You shall surely die,” came to pass. We’ve all eaten the fruit; now life is death, and in order to live we must die. It’s an interesting concept, being punished for the sins of our ancestors. Reparations, they call it. For equals, reparations are illogical, but for the Superior, they are necessary, for we are our ancestors, one creation. And we have proven, time and time again that we will continue to do that which was done at the beginning. We still eat the fruit, because we’ve always eaten the fruit. Though it falls on our heads, burns holes in our stomachs, and sears our tongues, we eat the fruit. We continue to show preference for the tree of knowledge and disregard for the tree of life. Toxins are enticing and delicious, while the pure extract of life, we find lackluster and drab. But which brings the greatest rewards? We might never care.

Entry XXV: Exorcise The Spirits

I am surrounded by the Spirit, but who isn’t? I am dying, but who isn’t? Crackling and falling into the coals, but it is said the Spirit possesses us. How can we know by which spirit it is we are possessed? There are some who possess us all: fear, confidence, joy, and sorrow. Or perhaps there are no spirits, but only chemicals. Of course those are all there are. We drink spirits to exorcise the spirits by which we were possessed at conception.

But there is no exorcism of this earth that can expel those. If one can, it is too far for us to reach of our own volition. So let us assume the exorcism finds us. Surely the spirit that exorcises the spirits of our birth is the Spirit. For only one Spirit can succeed in this Holy War. And whichever spirit that is, is the Spirit.

Entry XXVI: Whoever I Am

A year or so of limbo leaving acrimonious complaints behind, an answer to blood vessels terrorizing a mind lost to sweaty finger stoppers and smothering bed straps and a voice that uttered a nonsense akin to that brought forth by the sound of the lovechild Stallone and Brando conceived together in Paris during their makeup fuck after Brando denied Stallone that goddamned role that he ended up getting a shot at anyway.

A year or so of open windows, attic chill rooms, and eighteen two-wheel miles before each rising sun. A year lost. A year wasted. A year of me wasted, to produce a life unwasted.

I succeeded, whoever I am.

Entry XXVII: This Opaque Dimension

This is the only hell I will ever see; it will never be more terrible, I assure myself, as I pass into the realm of my understanding of the tragedy, this opaque dimension called Gehenna. For it is only during the first death that we may appreciate life, and when the first death comes, if this value remains apart from us in spirit, then the second death will find us. The first death, bringing us to this Outer Darkness, rests in place awaiting our awareness of the need for light but pride will be the champion of that day, for because we refused the necessary awareness, the next to solicit our door for collections will be Hades, his chains let loose upon us, freed up to bind us in them. With these chains he will drag us to be crushed beneath the pyramid of souls, staring into ourselves, in an all but nonexistent world, encapsulated in a space of no time. Eternity's antithesis.

Entry XXVIII: Infinite Contingencies

There are no distinguishably good people, therefore there are none distinguishably evil. One must reveal the other. Most probably, we are all either equally good or equally evil, therefore we are neither. In any confrontation between peoples, each side fights on the grounds that an inherently evil character embodies the opposing side, demanding such evil be destroyed. But such is the philosophy of war: logically fallacious.

Indeed, there are no character flaws other than humanity itself, and all that transpires remains naught more or less than the result of infinite contingencies. The unpopularity of this sound doctrine, I attribute to an inherent need, a portion of every human’s inherent evil, to place blame for all that has wronged the world, in order that the blamed be eliminated. However, none other than the equal evil of the world has wronged the world, thus, if anyone must be eliminated for wrongdoing, everyone must be.

Entry XXIX: The Peak of Human Experience

Vomit: the peak of human experience, my home, whatever you may call this place in time, in a time that refuses to modulate place or time. I call it vomit. In a way, this is beautiful. In a way, we are free. But are we all operating at the same frequency? Can one wavelength judge another as sufficient? Can one frequency claim another is insufficient? The insufficient novelties, utterly lacking in novelty, stricken with the vanity of heirlooms and the lack of actual meaning, a sick prank. A sick prank it was when the Father told us there remained a mystery. We searched and searched and disappeared, for we found no meaning, and if we ourselves maintain a lack of meaning then we maintain a lack of existence. And if any existence is lacking, all of it is. And if existence is lacking then why do I bear this? Why do I bear this curse that is the awareness, the perception of my existence, and the lack thereof? Is it a joke? Is it a game? A game, like I saw you and the other entities playing when I entered your realm? Or was that not you, Master? Will I ever know?

Entry XXX: We Must Scrape The Sky

The idols bequeath their expertise, solving all unsolved. Of course, they do. And I force mine, my ignorant genius, upon my brother and sister fools. Ants communicating ambiguous smoke signals fireless through antennae to finish the job, to retrospect and regret all that we missed in our lack of description. It works well for the construction of our world. But our world’s already constructed. Prideful players of God upon the stage, full of a counterfeit sound and an artificial fury, signifying the nothing we embody. Ants in cooperation to rebuild the Tower of Babel, more an anthill than a tower, when the rain falls and washes it all away in an evening, scattering us when the moths and rust destroy and the thieves break in and steal, knowing we will come together once more and try again tomorrow, expecting different results without any reason but hope.

We know our futility, but we try, for we must scrape the sky. We know our vanity, but we must feed our artificially selected excuses for life: these fools who honor the serpent and the dragon because they found the ancient image of the serpents intertwined to a double helix. But the serpents and the dragons are life themselves, so they lied in claiming they are its creators, for how can life create itself? Life came from Chaos, for only from disorder can an illusion of order derive. The illusion is no more orderly than Chaos itself. The illusion is Chaos, but Chaos is no illusion.

Entry XXXI: When I Was The Person I Was

A fear of stagnancy after a crisis of identity, a breakdown of the orderly, and a loss of dignity. I like who I am now, but not who I was. But when I was the person I was, I liked who I was. Such is life: I will tomorrow despise the me of yesterday, but feel comfort with the me of tomorrow’s today. The Lamb’s Book, filled with the earmarks of election, though an all-encompassing selection, the reconciliation of all things to Yourself. Such is my hope. I have a hope.

Entry XXXII: Infants To The Air

Most feel it. For some, it all just goes to their heads. At least the emotions don’t take over in we, the select few. We trust the sky, but not the ground. We are infants to the air, so we trust it, for if the heavens lord themselves over us, they must be our lords, right? Perhaps the universe is turned upside-down from what we assume as upright creatures. Homo erectus, the standing ape. We may walk upright, but we have never walked in uprightness. There hasn’t been a sign of righteousness since we began to decide for ourselves what was right and wrong, and were deceived every time. Perhaps there is no righteousness and the dog will perpetually eat the dog in this realm of reality. Perhaps I am dreaming. Perhaps I am dead.

Entry XXXIII: Free As A Bird

The universally obvious value of a thought traded in exchange for another thought. In fact, thought is currency, but people don't enjoy the effort necessary to obtain such a currency, so they take the wide road to destruction, counterfeiting ideas with uniquely designed paper, which looks nothing like the moneys of the gods they claim to be, those with neither image nor effigy (nor godhood). The world has slowly learned to mock those who long for the unique talents inherent in mankind above the apelike instincts so passionately promoted in a world as this. Safety and Comfort are their only friends, and those I have long since lost. They left me. They left me because I refused them. I refused them, for all safety and all comfort eventually become their respective antitheses in this realm. Therefore, when they left me, I experienced a true safety and comfort inconceivable by all the pitifully regressed life on Earth, all man and woman and child, for I was free. Free as a bird. Yes, even so, I remain: free as a bird, free as a bird, free as a bird: the refrain does all but refrain. Constant and unrecognizable as to whether I am the narrator of my soul, as the narrations repeat in harmony. There is no unity in the redundancy, only harmony. Free as a bird, free as a bird, free as a bird, free as a bird.

Free as a caged bird. Free as a caged, caged bird.

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