Ghul pt. 1.5

How do I explain my desperation to you... it is not that I wish for you think any perversions of me, or alter your thoughts on any variety of subjects, but that I am simply bored. I am only bored as a consequence of my condition. I have never once in my life felt boredom to the extent I feel it now. Even while imprisoned in my home country, in a solitary cell, for what I learned to be several months, I did not feel this bored. What is this boredom? A boredom of hopelessness, changelessness, desperation and disparagement. Every lessness of lessness is looming upon me, compressing me more and more, sinking me deeper and deeper into myself. This heavenly blessing, these words, if you shall read them, if by chance, they find their way before you, is my only companion. The trouble is, I do not know if I am writing, I cannot tell if documentation is occurring, it is simply the motion of my fingers slapping away at the keyboard which gives me a solemn slip of comfort. For what other physical action may I execute? These motions are instinctual, so, perhaps I could fuck, too. But I will never receive such an opportunity. I feel death looming about me now, as always, like a vulture. Yes, you are my companion, my only friend now. You’d be shocked to learn that death was to become first and only friend in this life. Even this language, which, if it sounds like I have acquired this by some organic endowment, typically reserved for pale, privileged kin, I assure you, it was not so. My induction into this language was one of desperate necessity, as it would, of course, allow me to survive against the very threat of living amongst it’s most fluent speakers. I taught myself, over years, with little to no assistance at all. I remember being young, pressing pen to paper with too much pressure, tearing right through it. Every letter to me was a new hieroglyph, to piece them together was to paint the Sistine Chapel. The difficulty for me was extraordinary, provoking a variety of uncontrollable ticks. These ticks tormented me, and have since become a primary source of my incessant masochism. I cannot explain fully, but imagine... as a child, I would draw the letter “a”. Do you understand? No. I would go to write a sentence, or a word, that begins with the letter “a”, which is easy, incredibly easy, so easy that requires no thought at all! An automated action. But, for a young me, to draw the letter “a”, was an impossible endeavor. It would begin with me writing the letter “a”, which was simple, but then, I would write it again, and again, and again, again again again and again and again again again and again and again and again and again and again again again again and again and again and again and again and again, until finally, the paper would would tear as I wrote it again and again and again and again and again and again and again again again again again again again AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAIN AGAIN ONE MORE TIME AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAINAGAINAGAINagainagaianagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagaina FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCK!!!!!!! I would smash the pencil into whatever surface was in front of me, then smash it into my hand, over and over until it would break through the skin, then break through the bone, then I could stop! HA!! I had done it, I would think, staring at my mangled little hand in awe, and I would scream, because it hurt, just as bad as everything else life had bestowed upon me. I would do this all without blinking once. It was the drugs which did this to me. The infidel doctors, in all their blasphemies against me, in all their attempts to put Allah on a leash, force fed me psychotropic chemicals in doses large enough to stop a grown man’s heart. For years, they did this to me. It was nothing, and one day it would end. The physical, psychological and emotional torment I endured resulted in my masochistic tendencies. But, this is not all from one source, and yet, it is all from one source. It would be impossible for me to explain this to you. But in regard to this language, to this device of devices, shamefully, I willingly submit. For now, I have nothing left. What is important, friends, is that I tell you of my masochism, that I tell you the becoming of my current state. Unfortunately, you are not my friends, and I will never tell you, and you will never understand. What I will do, is sit here and type, for I have no alternatives; and if you do read me, read me with faith, as I have only my faith to write with. If you do this, if you seek to understand me, you very well may uncover life’s greatest secrets. We are already inside the mirror, you need only bring yourself before me, and I will show you yourself. To speak this language is an ongoing difficulty, it lingers in my mouth like shit, so I rarely speak to this day. And now... who have I to speak to? This is becoming my speech. This is my voice now. I consider all eternity, it burns within me, I feel it rising, yet it always fades, returns to the darkness, One day I’ll follow it into the abyss, I am already there, I will find myself exactly where I am. I must confess to you, now that you know; My condition was not entirely imposed upon me by the infidel doctors, in fact, no one is at fault but me. I am the sole proprietor of my condition. While it’s true that my vision was lost due to a strange cancer, it was I who drew first blood. Those ticks came back to haunt me, you see. It began with a twitch in my eyelid, which I attributed to my lack of my sleep, for I never truly sleep. My sleep is like that of a madman who is wildly in love, resting on a bed of lightning, anxiously waiting for the thunder to roll. This twitch in my eyelid... like a demon of my childhood coming to possess me, became as restless as myself. If I am being honest, and I am, I will have to tell you what I’ve done to myself. I must tell you, I must confess... that I took my knife one night when I woke up from the twitch going on and on and on and on and on and on and on while I was trying to sleep, you see, I was trying to sleep, and it wouldn’t stop twitching, like the letter “a” as a child, I had to draw it, over and over and over and over and over and over again again again again again again. I stood before the mirror, thinking myself to be a sort of earthly shaman, with my knife steady in my hand. I observed the twitch in my right eyelid, it pulsed like it was breathing, swollen like a cancerous cyst. And... and I must have miscalculated or misjudged something or maybe I was drunk with ecstasy of harming myself or that I finally felt like a child again to break my own body so relentlessly, and if I’m being honest about the extent of my pleasure, I would tell you that I felt a kind of madness surging through me which I’ve never felt before, as if I were finally taking monumental step in the right direction, I slid the tip of blade under my swollen eyelid, and cut the lump right from it, but that didn’t halt the twitch as I thought it would, it only filled my eye with blood and to see blood everywhere, my very own blood was a dream of dreams, but the twitching wouldn’t stop, of course, this was no pharmaceutical side affect after-all, this was a self fulfilling prophesy! It was the sum of my life’s adversities adding up to an apex, from which I knew I would never return, but still, I desired more, I need the twitching to end, as you can imagine, to have severed the bottom half of your eyelid slowly with a dull blade, hoping desperately that it would cure a tormenting tick, only to have that tick worsen and worsen, become stronger and stronger, until the uncontrollable itch overwhelms you, takes over you and possesses you entirely. I am no stranger to this method, I have practiced it my whole life in fact, so it is imperative that you know, that I know, exactly where the line is drawn. I know exactly where the line is, as I am the one who draws it; and I know exactly where I walk when I choose to step over it. When this line is crossed, I know that my return is not promised. Still, by the nature of this demon possessing me, I choose to cross that line, I choose to cross it in a way I never have before; by removing my own eyelid. Once the eyelid was severed from me, I too, was severed from myself. I watched, yes, I watched, hovering in a high corner of my bathroom, as the demon leered at me in the mirror, as the blood pulsed and squirted from beneath my eye, the demon smirked, then became me... I watched this as the devil itself took my form, raised my blade in my hand, and with a smile... a smile of smiles, the most horrendous, ecstatic yet calm and soothing smile... I raised the knife to my eye, dark red blood, like red wine, pouring down my face, my chest, my whole torso, my legs... I cut. I cut. I cut.
No. It was not like in a movie. You would never see this on a screen, or read this in a book, only in the mirror could you have seen exactly what I watched myself do to myself. I cut, into the eye. I cut into my eye, I cut, I cut I cut, and kept cutting, all around it, until I was left with nothing but a gaping hole where a large part of my face used to be... and I am terrified to tell you, that in this process, I felt the highest estrangement I have ever felt; so close to death, so close to silence, that I felt completely at peace, for the first time in my life. And of course, I effectively rid myself of the relentless tick. I can feel it now... if I meditate on the ghost of that tick, I can almost summon it. But in reality, this is impossible, for I’ve removed the vein, removed the eye and brow, they lay sliced up somewhere, and my only lasting sentiment is a ghost of sensation, where that tick used be. So why then... why would I do such a horrific thing to my own body? How had I allowed myself to cross that line? Well, one might say, that childhood-me resurfaced and exacted his revenge against himself, or, that I had simply fulfilled a childhood dream, so to speak. Others, might say, in a very simple, passive, dismissive manner, that these events unfolded simply because, “He’s crazy.”. Well, as for those Others... I personally, do not subscribe to super-imposed declarations of psychological function based on systemically determined philosophies of morality embedded in a delusional perspective of human significance in a biological and ecological context of our species existence amongst all other life-forms on this planet, which renders the majority of human populations incapable of perceiving the reality of their own existence on Earth, thus suspending them in constant dissonance with the Earth itself. One may argue that, it is exactly these Others, whose dismissive aggression led me exactly to the point I am at now. But... this is all besides the point, for even if I can identify the leviathan whose breath has stolen my own, what shall I do now to contest him? Well, by disarming him of his most powerful weapons; Fear and Death, of course. The weapon of Death, is one’s faith in it’s existence, and Fear simply barricades it’s power. My own life is a testament of resistance to this leviathan. My brother used to tell me- Yes... I used to have a brother. I used to have a brother. When we were young, he would say to me, “Brother, there is only one thing on Earth more terrifying than Death... and it is you.”
You would be well to remember my brother’s wise words, and repeat this phrase every so often to yourself, “I am the only thing on Earth more terrifying than Death.”

How did I survive? I’m not sure that I did. I did not exactly “awake” from the incident, as much as I did dream of a darkness, a new, complete darkness, accompanied by fractals of apologetic explanations from doctors about where I was and why I was and how I was as I was. Naturally, I do not remember how I got there, nor do I remember how I got back here. But, I only carved out my right eye, doctor proctor, how did lose all sight in my left? Evidently, after a “very critical emergency surgery”, a CAT scan revealed aneurisms someplace behind my left eye, which, haphazardly, was simultaneouslybeing consumed by a cancerous tumor. The operation was a partial success... in that, it “saved my life”, but, unfortunately, while the surgeon’s nervous attempt to remove the tumor succeeded, he had “slightly nicked” an optic nerve with his scalpel, causing irreparable damage, resulting in the complete loss of sight in my left eye, leaving me entirely blind. Of my right eye, which I had brutally exorcized, there was nothing left for them to salvage. But, given the status I arrived in, I “ should be grateful” to be “alive” after having sustained such critical injuries from my “accident”. This was much more than I needed to hear.

I can find no resolution to my condition. The surplus and variety of pain and anxiety I feel is unprecedented and unbearable. I do not know what to do with myself, or even what I am capable of doing. I have only this device of the written language, for which purpose it serves, I cannot understand. Beyond that is shrouded in darkness, far from my reach. I do not know what I wish for.... nothing. Or, perhaps, some company! But, company is a strange luxury. As I think of all the people I’ve shared some relationship with in my life, I can not think of a single one who would be suitable company in my current state of vulnerability. I believe this is my own fault... it must be. Of course, I lust for a woman, for inconceivable reasons, and desire the pure love of another, for even more inconceivable reasons. I do not care. I will take either now. It is frightening to sit in this chair, I cannot tell where is where. I should retreat to one of the piles here soon. I do not know what I shall do there, as I certainly will not sleep, and I certainly will not imagine up any kind of future for myself, but to lay curled up in a ball on the floor is the closet thing I’ve to comfort. But I must tell you, it is somewhat relieving to confess the incident of my suffering. In fact, it is therapeutic. I should try this again, as I do not feel well now, and cannot imagine myself feeling any better in the time to come. With some miraculous faith, I will stop this writing, tap a few familiar keys, and hope it finds it’s way somewhere to you.

This music is haunting me now... have you ever listened to Aphex Twin? Luckily, I was listening to this album, Selected Ambient Works Vol. II, Disc One, before and during the incident, so when I stepped on the remote, which I am still unable to find, I was relieved to hear this instead of anything else. But, then I was horrified, for I remembered setting the play mode to “repeat disc”... for the first hour of the music, though I enjoyed it’s presence, I desperately prayed that it would end, that it would not do exactly what it is doing now; playing on an endless loop.