Ghūl pt. 2.5 [The Feral Child]

I have nothing left. I feel now, I’ve never felt before. A great power is weighing upon me... it threatens me with destruction. I am confused... paralyzed by my anguish. I must confess, I must confess something. What threat, what destruction, could be greater than my own? There is a darkness within me... a greater void. My blindness is nothing. My physical pain is nothing. My body, my anxiety, my guilt, my fear... my life, in it’s entirety... nothing could compare to this void of my soul. It is the bearer of all my suffering. There is no where to begin about it, I don’t believe I have the strength. And how it beckons me.. how it calls to me, deep throughout my body, my mind, my environment, Earth, the people... there are no people, no individuals, everything is nothing and everything. If I were to confess this... it would be my last lament, for I would have nothing left to do but open myself to it. You do not understand. Here, in life, there is no leaving, there is no returning, there is nothing to worry the wonder of life, as it is as it is, was as it was, will be as it will be. The void within me is the only exit from life. It is greater than death, it is greater than fear. It’s power greatly exceeds even Allah. I would rejoice in returning to Allah’s womb, if I had any faith that it could save me. Still, you do not understand, as not even I am capable of understanding. If I were to ever submit myself to it, I would be removed from life entirely. My faith is the only thing sustaining me. Faith in what, I can not say. But, this dissonance will never be resolved. My soul simply carries it from life to life. There is an issue more immediate, as I am trapped inside this... “body”. While I sit here, in complete darkness, trembling with anticipation, I come to realize that I finally have a moment to reflect...

Of this life, I’ve known every good and evil by my own doing, yet, I have no anxieties over morality. Morality is strangely neutral... it is not inherent by any means, and as far as I could ever tell, it is only used divisively as a means of control. Imagine it as a miraculous tool which renders people fear of their own thoughts and actions. I do not fear my actions as much as I fear my inactions... and I do not fear my inactions. But, again, none of this is immediate. There is something immediate haunting me. A shadowy subject of myself which I am only now coming to terms with. In my reflection, my past becomes clear to me. In my past, I find the path which has led me to where I am now; and if you were where I am now, you too would be overwhelmed by the desire to find this exact path. Only in my immediacy am I able to find some resolution of myself. My immediacy consists of darkness and my body, or, my body of darkness, or, a body of darkness... have it as you will. So my only hope is that, by confessing, if to no one but myself, simply by writing it in the manner I have been, that I should find some resolution of myself. The subject is of my exile. An exile which I’ve lived in for all my life; and perhaps out of fear, have neglected to address the adversities of. Had I not been so neglectful of myself in the past, I may have avoided the path which led me to where I am now. I do not intend to reconcile with time, but to reconcile with the becoming of myself.

I should tell you, I am horrible, terrible, evil... only because you said so. I am a product of arbitrary circumstances. I will not confess my sins, for I have no sins to confess. Sure, I’ve committed every act of violence, every blasphemy imaginable; and I am the son of chaos, not your architecture of life. My only sin is living! Now, speak to me of free will! I am as you’ve defined me: I am the body of death. One look into my eyes petrifies even the Saint of Saints. Still, you do not understand. You see me how you see a mirror, yourself in a reflection. I am a mere distortion of your delusions. Death does not exist, neither does fear, and I am not your evil, for what is evil but the hunger of good? Neither am I your good, for what is good but the fear of evil? You evade your own paradox, projecting your hallucinations upon clouds of smoke rising from fires you set. No, I am nothing of yours. I am pure like the fire itself.

I am an Arab, like the fire, wind, water and earth. I was born of a sacred land, not far from the tomb of the Prophet, PBUH. Surely, you’ve heard of the holy city of Medina? I do not believe in sacred lands, nor do I abide to lines men draw upon the Earth. This is perhaps the rudimentary reason of my exile; I’ve lived as a vestige of the mud, whose only nourishment was earthly light. Do I have a mother? Naturally! For reasons beyond my comprehension, my mother was a white woman. I was orphaned by her in infancy, for reasons I would come to sympathize with. My life was left in the hands of Allah, which left me feral until adolescence. I do not romanticize the fate of my survival beyond it being Allah’s will; and I do not feel strong enough now to share with you the exact nature of this fate. Amongst humans, I was a mere animal of their image, but, I was intelligent, in fact, the most intelligent amongst them. You must excuse the vague recollection of my early life, as I had not even a vague conception of time to rely on. I can tell you that for all my feral youth, I yearned for my own mother; and at some point I knew enough to seek her out, and of course, I did find her; only to find that I had been conceived by rape and she had committed suicide shortly after my abandonment. She could not live with me, as I was an embodiment of her rapist, my father, and could not live without me, as I was an embodiment of her; being her only son. Once I learned of my conception, which is difficult to explain exactly how I “learned” of this, as I was feral, I did understand the horror of rape, I did understand her torment, I did understand her, and naturally, I did love my mother unconditionally. I felt comforted in knowing she no longer suffered, yet was tormented by her absence in the life she had given me. Maybe it was this absence which compelled me to love her so much. Once I learned of her death, I had decided to seek out my father, who I had also yearned for unknowingly all along. I did not meet my father until I had already far surpassed him as a man, and I was only a boy, who had lived as wild as any animal or plant. The meeting of my father would come to define the destiny of my life; upon finding him, I noticed immediately how closely my face resembled his, how my complexion was closer to his than my mother’s, and upon hugging him, as any feral son would do upon meeting his absent, rapist, murderer father, I noticed that I smelled just like him too. We did not exchange a single word before I killed him. I did not know words, or any kind of spoken language, but I was so in tune with the Earth and Allah that my sensory perception was truly super-natural. I needed only to look in his eyes silently to know, and to make known, that we were father and son. I hugged him only to confirm this by the likeness of our pheromones, of course... I did not truly desire his embrace, how could I? But I will admit, It did give me deep satisfaction to touch him lovingly just once before ending his life. Being the savage that I was, the only weapon at my disposal was a rock. I will tell you exactly what I did; thinking only of my mother’s torment, I jumped upon him, straddled his chest, wrapped my little left hand neatly around his throat and, tightly gripping the rock in my little right hand, began bludgeoning his face. After just three strikes, he became limp and collapsed to the ground like a skyscraper. I sat on his chest breathing heavily, still clamping his throat in one hand, holding the bloodied stone high above my head in the other, and while looking down upon his bloodied face, I saw an exact portrait of myself. Also, I still felt a pulse, so I struck again and his skull gave in above the left eye. My hair was very long, straight and thick, of course, and looking down upon him, it curtained around his face; as if I were looking down a long dark tunnel with a mirror at the other end. In this mirror I saw only the dim reflection of my mother’s torturer, and naturally, I wished only to destroy it. Save anymore metaphors, I began rapidly striking his face with the rock, faster and faster, harder and harder, until finally, there was no more face left to strike. Suddenly, I became the bastard son of two corpses.

Friends, my empty vestiges, I have since considered that perhaps I suffered a great misunderstanding; that these actions, so definitive of my fate, were consequences of miscommunication and subsequent delusion. It may be true, that my mother was not raped by my father, as I never heard an account of the story directly from her mouth, nor had I been present at the time of this alleged event. Maybe, I was too young to understand the complexity of sexuality put before me in regard to my conception, and what I would later learn to be kinks and fetishes could be equivalent to rape in innocent eyes. Maybe, my mother did not commit suicide because of me, or my father, or anything else I could imagine. My own masochistic sexuality has given me insight on this matter, despite having already considered that this isn’t a matter of matter at all. It is plausible to me that my mother did not commit suicide, After all: She was a Non-Muslim white woman, who... somehow... conceived a child in a holy Muslim city with a strictly enforced zero-tolerance policy for Non-Muslims. Perhaps my mother was executed, which I learned to be a common punishment for women, not just in the Muslim world, but the entire world where men hold gross power over women and their bodies. Maybe she was simply deported or escorted from the holy city. Maybe she got homesick, or had some unfathomable vision, or yearned to travel the world, and left simply on her own accord. Maybe, in any of these potential events of her departure, she selflessly abandoned me to save my life. Maybe she believed she was ready to be a mother, then realized she wasn’t ready or wasn’t fit to be a mother, in whichever strange preconception mother’s have of what a mother’s duty is supposed to be exactly. Maybe, just maybe, my mother is not dead after all! Despite the reasoning of my abandonment, in all the ways I can imagine it, what happened there-after was Allah’s will. For the feral little creature I was could not comprehend the differences between consensual sex, rape, murder, torture, death, abandonment or anything else unless I could see it with my own eyes. You must understand, for me, the existence of my mother was nothing more than an idea, or an instinct, it is difficult to say which exactly, but I never saw her, never touched her, never knew anything of her until one day I realized she was gone. I was feral, void of your logical reasonings, yet swollen with chaos, emotion and longing. The difference between my mother’s death, or rape, or execution, or voluntary absence was completely irrelevant to my life, because suddenly, in order to keep living, I needed something to believe in.... and believe I did. It was belief that drove me to seek out my father. Belief that I could avenge my mother for something I believed he did to her. Belief that what I believed he did to her was the cause of my own suffering and loneliness and thus my responsibility. I’ve since believed that I was wrong to believe. I’ve since considered that maybe my father was not the cause of my suffering or my loneliness, nor was my mother. That maybe, the cause of my suffering and loneliness had nothing to do with anything other than my being alive. Whichever way one might impose their morals into the event of my conception, the fact of the matter is that my mother and my father were two individuals, with two entirely separate lives, which I am entirely unaware of, with the exception that they had sex with each other, somehow, at least one time, resulting in my entire life. And I’ll be damned, after the life I’ve lived, if I blame two strangers for fucking each other once. Damned like the messiah. I’ve also considered that perhaps the man I killed was not my father at all, but simply an innocent man. Likely, this man I killed was indeed no innocent man, but a man nonetheless, whose sins unto women were irrevocable. This is not to say I knew the sins of the man I killed, just that I knew he was a man amongst men. It may be true that amongst men, the man I killed was no man at all, and in contrast, that I was the only true man amongst men amongst the men I’ve killed, unfortunately. One must be unfortunate to have death delivered to them, and as well to be the one delivering. As misunderstanding unfolds in fate, so too does misfortune, as it is written. Well, if the man I killed was not my father, he was indeed a man who looked just like me. If my only intention had been to kill a man, I certainly did kill a man who I believed to be a man. I killed a man who looks like me. To kill a man, what does it mean to kill a man? To kill a man who looks like me? In the case that the man who looked like me I killed was indeed my father, me killing him upon our first meeting may have established the deepest and purest connection a father and son can have. The same could be said in regard to my mother, as the most significant memories of memories I have of her are in the moments I sought, found and killed my father. You will struggle all your life to acclimate the becoming of your parents; where I resolved this tribulation before I even knew what “death” was. Everything alive is already dead. Life is simply a network of vessels which allow Allah to traverse our own forms. If both my parents were alive today, I would still be the bastard son of two corpses! My only connection to them manifested itself in the form of one event driven by passion. To have our entire lives cross at the beginning of an ending which begins again at the death of my father, or, the death of an innocent man who looks like me, by the will of my mother’s death, has bound us eternally in Allah’s pure form. No sin exists in any of this... I simply crossed a path of longing, emotion and chaos.
    
The incident of my fate has been meticulously documented and meticulously studied by researchers in a wide variety of subjects. Needless to say, when I was found by gun-wielding officers, I reacted violently with my rock and consequently suffered a severe gunshot wound to my left leg. Once I was in custody, the officers quickly realized just how out of their element my situation was. The idea of imprisonment or death was out of the question, as I was estimated to be only eleven years old at the time, and hadn’t the faintest clue as to what that even meant. This was my introduction to the concept of time, which I’ve struggled to comprehend even in the slightest ever since. Sequently, I was turned over to practitioners of the darkest arts. The infidels tried desperately to domesticate me, to educate me, to force me into their form. I remember being presented with a meaningless task consisting of shaped pegs and holes. This thoughtless experiment offended me, so I retreated into stillness and silence, which gave me some metaphor of my own reflection; simply, you cannot force a round peg into a square hole. Furthermore, I was no simple round peg... I was everything that is, and everything that isn’t too. I should emphasize that, this square hole they attempted to mould me in was exactly that, a square hole. Do I need to explain to you how a square hole is incapable of moulding anything? I would come to learn that, being as I was everything which is and isn’t too, this square hole was already a minuscule and rather insignificant part of me. But, this was an insignificant revelation amongst the many torturous methodical treatments brought upon me. The adversities of their efforts are too insidious for me to have an objective recollection of now, but needless to say, I was relentlessly disobedient. I resisted so violently, in fact, that I had accidentally killed one of their doctors, putting an end to what felt like a lifetime of torture. Evidently, I was only imprisoned by them for a number of weeks before the decision was made, quite desperately, to exile me on the grounds of not being a devout follower of the Prophet, PBUH, inside the walls of this holy city built around his tomb. Needless to say, as I was entirely feral, I did not comprehend a word of this or any number of the blasphemies committed against me.

Well, that is, in short, the story of my exile, or, in part, how I came to be exiled. Perhaps one day I will share with you a detailed account of my feral childhood, as I must admit, it is exceedingly fascinating! I haven’t the strength to do so now, it is so exhausting to remember memories lost within memories. O, how they degrade themselves, like old film, picking up noise and artifacts with each and every screening. Or the spoken word, which loses more of it’s allusive meaning with each and every verbalization. Such examinations of self should be reserved for one’s death-bed... which I happen to be laying in now, it’s beginning to seem. The irony! How lucky I am. Well, I am no seer... save all omens and forebodings for the Christ and his counterpart. I am neither and devotional to nothing. I will tell you what I am...

When the time time came for my deportation, I was treated barbarically, and transported exactly like the animal I was; bound and blindfolded. I thrashed for a good while, but other than that, my recollection is a thin darkness and noise. Similar to now, come to think of it, minus the worldly obstructions of mind I’m currently plagued with. Less hollow, devoid of earthly fruition. If I’m being honest, which I am, part of me found pleasure in being bound and gagged in such a cold manner. Some sick psychology took place in that darkness, as I was hissing and thrashing about helplessly, I sprouted my first real erection. I remember giggling at the butterflies fluttering about my belly, suspended completely naked in this strange hollow container, thrusting my frail hips back and forth into the void, searching for some tension to alleviate the tension. You ever seen an eleven year old arab feral child fuck the void? I impregnated the damned thing too, now our little bastard spawn is my caretaker; little darkness, little nothing. Splayed like the Virtruvian Boy, one might say, I gave birth to the birth of myself! Ravishing! Lest, these events are of little significance. This music... stop it! I’ll tell you the story.  The container came to a halt, no more shaking, or thrashing about, I was moved like an old machine, out into open air, unbounded, untied and unveiled. Once they removed the curtain of such heavenly darkness, I was distraught, disheveled even, to find myself surrounded by bleak grey cubes extending to the heavens edge. Sharp, violent corners, ninety-degree angles of steel, concrete and glass. If all else failed in the destruction of my spirit, the architecture was sure to prevail. It was here, of all wondrous paradises on Earth, they would choose to unleash me. How they came to this conclusion was never my business to know. My only business of knowing was akin to hunting and gathering as a means of survival, beyond which life reserved for me pure ecstasies of mysticisms forbidden to inhabitants of the exoteric plane. Iran. Yes, I ran, immediately, until I found a damp, shaded corner, bountiful with mold and grit, to acclimate myself like a mushroom spore. The seething hot concrete and asphalt burnt the tender soles of my tender desert feet. Why any human who walks upon two feet would intentionally impose such an abrasive, coarse material upon the Earth’s gentle textures, is still beyond my comprehension. Then I remember, these humans do not walk on two feet, they wrap themselves in rubber and plastic, petrol; and hover around in vehicles which emit poisonous fumes into precious, clean air. Why?! Think of the Prophet, PBUH! The Prophet, PBUH, walked upon two feet, upon moist and fertile earth. Why don’t you walk upon the earth like The Prophet?! PBUH... Well, on my own two feet, I walked diligently, like The Prophet himself. In my confusion, ghostly faces blurred past, truly ghostly, pale, skeletal faces which I had never seen the likes of before. They all seemed to stare at me, understandably, as I was as naked then as I am now. Even in my frail form, my body was something unrefined to them, grotesque like crude oil, like the blood of my mother-land, and the rivers of my father. An energy rose within me... I was hungry, or hunger rather, as I had not been fed and was unable to “hunt” or “gather” in this abyss of grey matter. As I darted through the labyrinth, these pale faces kept a uniform fashion, wrapped in dark materials, filled with dark emotions, blank faces and bodies. I felt so full of emptiness, my longing to be fulfilled was my greatest segregation amongst them. As I rounded the corner of some glimmering box, I crashed into a wooden crate, bursting at the seams with my passion fruit... bananas. For this moment, I transcended my hellish circumstances into a paradise more heavenly than Eden, for not even in the orchards of my native oasis had I encountered such bright, ripe, large bananas in such a luscious quantity. I was overwhelmed! Then began peeling away, shoving banana after banana down my throat, didn’t need to chew, just taste, swallow, digest. I did chew some, I laughed some too, dancing and howling like a dervish upon the pile, squashing bananas beneath my soft feet, between my little toes. Pleasure, pure ecstasy. Then, the reality of my environment came crashing through my paradise, and with my little mouth full of mush, I could not muster as much as a whimper. Police, officers, authority surrounded me, again, with guns drawn, pale faces red with power. They yelled sharp blasphemies at me in their acute tongue of order, but I understood nothing. I thought only of these precious bananas and, with some courageous effort, I managed to sneak one more, not in my mouth, but in my moist little rump... you know... for later! It did hurt, to insert such a large object there with such little preparation, but this naked little beast had become accustomed to this method of storage, and had learned to find great pleasure in it... All on my own, mind you!! The officers looked on in awe, so woefully aroused by my savagery, they quickly bequeathed their strict hostilities, and daintily swooned upon each other. Upon noticing this swooning, I flashed a banana filled smirk, then turned around and wagged my little brown bottom to further seduce their hot suffering. They couldn’t help but cry out! Who could blame them? After-all, I had left only the tip exposed, like a little yellow tail...

HA! I am kidding you, I did not do this... I simply wish I had! No... the ghostly officers quickly realized I was a child, a small one, at that. If I’m being honest, my life up until this point had been mere physical survival. I was very malnourished, and lived in constant poor health. For how golden my pigment is, I was very pale, my teeth were rotting, I was covered in scabs and my bones poked from my drooping flesh. My flesh drooped not because I was fat, but because I had not enough meat to fill it. My belly remained bloated as a result of this hunger. The only food I became capable of digesting were bananas and the bitter pits of apricots. I often became ill of malnutrition... in fact, I would later learn that I had lived my entire life in a state of rather critical illness. Well, because I was naked, the pale demons could see all of this. So, they holstered their weapons, then proceeded to tackle me, subdue me, and place me under arrest. To be placed under arrest is a cruel phenomenon. The terminology does not serve the humiliation and torment justice, and it being a matter of justice, I should produce the proper terminology: To have a knee forced into my back and neck, my face grated against the concrete, arms forcefully contorted behind me, unable to breath, my own breath being forced from my body, while being screamed at with threats of destruction... there are worse brutalities... to have an officer stomp on you, beat you with his fists and every weapon at his disposal, while you are cuffed, tied and bound, helpless to defend yourself from their uncontrollable fits of rage and paranoia, to be spit on, objectified, called by degrading names, at every instance of these interactions, a dehumanization is occurring, in every angle of their language and pose, their assumed power, superiority, and subsequent hostility, violence, as if nothing on this Earth were more sacred, more worthy of being protected than themselves. These automated individuals... torn away from their own souls, from their own nature of being, they resolve to act without thought or emotion, for which reason I cannot identify, I cannot perceive myself through them, so determined to force, impose, control other lives by the grace of a raincloud passing over their heads. If you bleed, you may wear a scar of these devils on your skin forever.  A mark of their abuse, their physical and psychological torture of you. Well... I already knew the harm they were capable of causing me, so, I was lucky to only be beaten and tased this time, I guess. Remember, I knew nothing of behavior or conduct in accordance with these horrible delusions of order. The threat of death was nothing, I did not perceive death at all. I perceived only my primordial senses, pleasure and pain. There is another besides those two, but that primordial sense is of the spirit, of darkness and the unknown accessible to us only in solitude, where we are never alone. And truly, in solitude, I know, I am never, ever, alone. To know this, one must maintain a strong spiritual fiber, to be of the Earth, and hear the distinct voice of one’s own soul. Inside this box, where one becomes trapped, and deaf to their own voice, does one forget the nature of being of nature whose nature is being. It is this box... It is this box, where these laws, of refined delusion, produce officers and automated beings; and the automation, it is action, devoid of idleness, the tenderness of being. Why must they destroy me> this frail body? Why not kill me? Why confine me, or subjugate me to delusions of order, falsehood and fables, where no tenderness, or stillness, may exist. Why tear me away from the moment, where everything stands still, and is unveiled to me, like the space between matter. I ask you:

“Do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“I don’t. Do you understand what that means?”
No.
“It means I understand everything. Do you know what it means to understand everything?”
No.
“Do you understand what it means to understand?”
No.
“It means to humble yourself to that which is unknown to you. Now, do you understand what it means to understand everything?”
No.
“It means that everything is unknown to you. Now, do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“Why?”
Because I refuse to understand that everything is unknown to me.
“I’m sorry... I didn’t quite catch that... could you speak up, please?”
Because I refuse to understand that everything is unknown to me!
“Did everyone catch that? No? Please, speak louder.”
BECAUSE I REFUSE TO UNDERSTAND THAT EVERYTHING IS UNKNOWN TO ME!
“Yes! Haha very good, I am proud of you-”
Thank-
“Do not interrupt me. Now, do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“Well, at least we know why. To understand everything, means to humble yourself to life as a vestige of the spirit, of the soul, all knowing, Allah, through which, everyone and everything exists to evolve.”
I do not understand.
“I do. Here, I will you show you...”

As the officers subdued me on the abrasive concrete, I felt tremendous pain and consequent fear. Their bodies were much larger and stronger than mine; brute like the architecture around us, built to force and destroy soft, tender things such as myself. The architecture is a mould which forces us malleable beings into it’s form. The largest of these demons pressed his knee into my spine, which squeezed all the breath out from between me and the concrete, and permitted no more to enter. My wrists were cuffed together behind my back, like some livestock before slaughter, tight enough to restrict circulation, which quickly numbed my fingertips. It was not the death I feared, for I could not fear that which did not exist; it was this suffocation, this suppression brought forcefully upon me. This fear is a fear of fear. Though merely a physical adversity as it was, so potent was this fear, manifesting in the depths of my frail structure, that I could not help but violently thrash and wail. In this thrashing and wailing, I managed to piss off the giant white monkey on my back, who also began thrashing but instead of wailing he exalted authority... authority which, under any circumstance, is abuse, violence in itself and to some extent, rape. As we thrashed back and forth, I suffered many injuries, the worst of them suffered to my left arm. First, my shoulder became dislocated, which shocked my whole arm in a nightmarish way. Second, my wrist broke between the pressure of the handcuffs and the officers leg, specifically, the growth plate was shattered. Because I sustained these injuries at such a formative age, my whole body grew slightly asymmetrical as compensation. This is to say, my left arm has never functioned properly since that day, and I never didn’t notice the difference. Even now, I am plagued with cramps in the wrist, a locking up and delay, with what little movement I may manage with it, and if I rotate this arm spontaneously in any direction, nerves may pinch between the joint, or the damned thing just pops right out. Yes, even before I achieved my current status of deformity, I lived with a haunting dysmorphia. There are scars you can’t you can’t see... scars which are real, scars which one feels constantly. The electricity... I still feel it in my bones. The taser is among the most cruel weapons used against me. I wish I wasn’t screeching when the pig pressed it into the back of my neck... the initial jolt burnt like ice on my spine, but imagine the ice seeping through your skin and spreading through every every muscle in your body, then clenching, freezing you. At the moment he tased me, my jaw clenched and I bit right through my bottom lip. I can feel the scar tissue there now... I can always feel the scar tissue, wherever the wound healed. Well, by this point, I had blacked out! What happened next is mystery, but future circumstances and occurrences informed me of a process which I’ve become too familiar with... Friends... some of you.. HA! have such refined images of yourselves and the world you inhabit, one begins to wonder, on which exact morning do you awaken? Your dreams are dull and narrow, so far removed from any reality on this Earth, I begin to wonder if you are truly from another planet? As it seems you believe yourself to be. Friends... by chance this letter should reach you, and if by chance you should read it, I ask you; do you think you are exempt from this condemnation? Let me assure you, if you’re not dead, you’re worthless to me. My voice belongs to the dead, not you who reads this letter! Your desensitized delusions do not escape me... Oh! Good for you! Yes, separate yourself from the animal! I applaud your venerability! Bespoke genius... I can’t decide which disgusts me more! That you regard me as an animal, or that you have no regard for the animal you regard me as?

You must understand, this point in my life is a landmark of immeasurable change; an evolutionary turning point, where I was stripped of my feral nature by force. When I speak to you of my mother land, the bridge between then and now has collapsed, therefore I can not fathom or resurrect details from there, as there is no detail there for me to summon. In my mind, these memories are like that of another life; I know exactly what I’ve experienced, but have not the language to communicate them to you. Here I am, using words from the depths of mind, knowing no word is capable of encapsulating exactly what it is I’ve experienced. Still, out of nothing more than pure determination to distract myself from the crude distortion that has become myself, I escape in faith. I’ve wished so many times since this day, to be able to communicate the vivid essence of my feral life to other humans, if only for the sake of understanding, as to alleviate the grave feeling of alienation I’ve since suffered. Yet, even this alienation is an institution which I am unable to abide. Sometimes, I’d find myself extending my hands towards tree branches and bushes, like antennas, sending signals and receiving. Even as an alien, I was a failure. Time would come crushing like a compressor, but I bobbed and weaved and connected and disconnected as much as I pleased! My suffering sufferssufferance from many facets... I was violently captured, physically and psychologically tortured, imprisoned and displaced, only to be violently captured, tortured and imprisoned again! All of which were interchangeable, I’d be lying to say I was not entirely indifferent, like a needle inside a bubble of eternity, I always knew I was free. In fact, freedom is all I’ve ever truly known. But you... pale cowards... you will never know my freedom. You are not even worthy to know of my freedom! The Hell you created for me... the Hell you put me through and through and through again and again and again... No, you are not allowed to know freedom now... this is my secret.

I am beginning to fall in love with this music... Do you know this? Aphex Twin? It is so wonderful... mysterious, dark and ominous. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been playing now... weeks? months? years? Who knows... who cares... these melodies evoke something deep within me... a familiar place I’ve never been before, like a home. This music reminds me of my dear freedom, lbn, sweet, honest Earth. I wish I could paint this vision vividly... darkness holds no color, this sound, like aroma, permeating from within me. I couldn’t end it even if I wanted to. I am content with this endlessness. I wonder... I would like to meet this great musician! I wonder... I would do anything for this music. As if all my life had added up to my hearing it; destiny, fate... a manifestation of sound, divine prophesies of sensation.

I know you will resent me for doing so, but, my dear friends... I must share this last lament...I am not so worried about your judgement anymore, perhaps I never was, well, my freedom is profound, I should reserve myself no longer; I am not a well of oil for you and your people to extract and profit from, despite your seeming to think so. Do you believe you know darkness? My dear, dear friends... you do not know darkness... I myself am a shadow of the shadow of darkness itself. You cannot imagine the void I know, the nothing I embody, the blackness which fuels my life. There is no matter on this Earth which you may grasp to feel what I feel now. I must tell you, like a dying prophet, the nature of my suffering... I have a foot like a black hole, similar to the one I’ve bestowed upon my face. I am grateful I can no longer look at it, as the sight of my foot was a torture in itself, despite it already being attached to my body. It is horribly disfigured... terribly, monstrously, unimaginably disfigured for what one may imagine when they think of a “foot”, I have a formless mass of nerves and tendons, clasping onto splintered bones and wrapped tightly in flesh. There is a reason, an explanation, for why and how my foot became disfigured... but I am beyond reason. Why must I explain everything to you? Is it not enough to feel what I feel? It is more than enough for me, too much, to a boiling point, where the feeling expels itself from within me involuntarily. Friends, do you truly believe you know darkness? Do you truly believe that you want to know? You know I can show you. You’ve always known this about me. I never tried to hide it. The moment I gain your soul’s honest consent, I will show you, I will teach you. Until then, I will not be fooled by your insincerity. You must yearn it. You must long for it more than a dying wish, or a divine love. There is only gateway, only one single exit; it is through me. The rest is a trick! A foolish ruse of self-deception, to stray you from the truth of divine recurrence. The darkness I know exceeds even eternity... not even the infinite may fathom it’s end. To show you my all is less than a half; the rest is dependent on the willingness of your soul. Do not touch me. Between the heavenly ecstasy and the void, you are incapable of maintaining yourself. I only maintain because I maintain no self. I am entirely selfless. This is not true for you, despite your delusional beliefs. Here, let me tell you about my foot instead: I wish to remove it! I fantasize constantly... of cutting it off. It simply burdens me. I can no longer walk, still, it hurts. It is of no use to me now, just as my face has become. The nature of pain, in regard to my foot, left, is a relentless numbness. Believe me, numbness is divine pain, worse than any hurting. Any sensation at all would be a relief from this numbness. Knowing of it’s disfigurement, in addition to numbness, only compels me more to remove it entirely. I do not know how I would remove it. I don’t particularly care. I want it gone. This fucking foot...

Words are not enough. They express no real explicitly, no matter which way you form them or uniform them. Even language, or math, or steel, nor led, nor a nation’s army’s artillery wholly aimed at my heartache could soothe it. So, how am I to express to you, exactly, given all I’ve given, the extremity of having been abused as a child? A detailed outline of events and experiences, simply, does not add up. If it is sickening to think about, one should absolutely beckon such sickness, where fear threatens you with oblivion, your only resolution should be to run toward it. My people are masters of the apocalypse, in any way one might theorize or hypothesize or philosophize it, it truly remains a product of being fetishized, thus, humiliated, rendered powerless indefinitely to that exoteric source of pressure which crushes us like insects from within our mother’s womb to our mass graves, yes, mass graves... for it will be too late to bury us one by one by the time anyone, including ourselves, realize we’re already dead. I’ve known nothing but exploitation, my body, treated like a fertilizer, like dirt. I am not that dying man from yesterday, whose voice has decayed to rubble amongst the ruins of his kingdom... nor am I that dying man from yesterday ten years ago, or one hundred years ago, or ten thousand and one years ago.... no, I am no dying man at all. To be a dying man, I’d have to have had the opportunity to live to grow old, or, to grow, at the very least, to become a man, to live. None of which I actually had. One must imagine the tone of my voice - no. One must imagine the becoming of my tone, or, the sculpture of my sound. One must imagine, not because they’re invalid, but because it is only this difference, this distance, which gives us cohesion. If I show something of myself, of my life’s experience, which is considered immoral, or indisputably, unfathomably wrong, you must first take this image as your own reflection, but you mustn't shut your eyes, you mustn’t turn away, for you become that which you fear. To turn away from the experience of another is the highest betrayal amongst us, where it perpetuates our shared adversities, you, fueling a machine of privileged ignorance. You must willingly imagine, not these words from the lips of a dying old man, but from a child. Yes. You must imagine these words coming from the lips of your own child, whether that be yourself as a child or a child you made or a child you know, you must imagine me all exactly as that child. You must imagine this child bleeding. Why? You must imagine this child being beaten. How? With what? By whom? You must imagine this child being raped. You must imagine this child, this innocent child, being brutally raped. You must imagine this beautiful, innocent, angelic child being starved, tortured, raped then murdered. You must imagine this child, on the verge of death, looking into your eyes, begging you for answers; “Why? Why have you done this to me? Why?!”, but you cannot answer, you longer have a voice of your own. You think that soon death will come to save this child, but death never comes. You exist to listen, to hear this voice, in silence. So you listen closely... what does my voice sound like?

This music is torment. I am not listening to Aphex Twin, that’s simply a name I made up!
This music, which has been playing all along, is a piece titled “Persepolis” by Iannis Xenakis... or was it his Metastasis? Or is it my own Metastasis? Whose Metastasis haveI been listening to?! I heard it long before I felt it within me... or had I felt it first? I am always forgetting the order of things... the architecture of events, infrastructures of a life.  To hear is simply one torture... any one sense alone leaves me too vulnerable, but to combine one or two or three of these senses is a hell beyond all comprehension. That is to say, to listen is enough to hear everything, but to see what you hear? Well, I am blind, but still, I see sound accurately, so, to see is to hear, you see? And what is to see and what is to hear if not a matter of matters, thus a matter of touch? There, the real nature of my darkest obsession! Please... it is not so schizophrenic, or, hallucinatory as you make it out to be. How would you know? The way you cowards desensitize yourself with drugs as a means of control... it makes me sick! Isn’t the body a drug enough? Why must one put pills through it? Why must you dampen the reality of yourself to yourself? Why stop at pills? Even eating is propagation of decay. All digestion is dissent! I feel healthiest while I am starving! It is not enough to tell you I was feral, for you haven’t allowed yourself the vulnerability required to even conceive of such a state of being. Even if you had, what words could carry such an indefinite experience? What reason, which I’m sure now you’re entirely vacant of, would I have to attempt to encapsulate myself within them, then?

And all I think of is my sibling... the highest treasure of my heart. There is no good or evil I wouldn’t traverse to protecth    . But, I have not lived the life of a hypothetical man. It would be more apt to tell you I have summoned the deepest fears of men, so that they’ve begged for a death they would never receive, that relief I have no use in providing. What is there to gain by torturing the dead? My only resolution has been to use death to fabricate nightmares for the living. This is to say, it was not the people I killed whom I intended to torture, but the people who loved the people I killed. What is there to gain by torturing the living? I cannot speak for those who tortured me... my voice cannot justify their actions, neither can it justify, but eradicate a silence, to fill a void, where silence is a violence in/of itself . This is to say, I am only ever speaking in self-defense. So I must ask this question; what is there to gain by torturing the living? As one who tortures, I can not live with myself, so I must ask this question; what is there to gain by torturing the living? What does one gain by torturing me? If you can call this corpse I’ve become “alive”, I must know what I’ve lost as a result of my torture. What have I lost, which I may never regain? For I know what is it to torture, to be tortured, to lose without gain. What has it meant for me to lose without gain? Where I gained nothing, I became a loss... what have I lost having nothing to lose? What may one gain by having nothing? Humanity? I never wanted humanity... or any any standard to be set to. I’ve always gravitated towards insanity, or savagery, or an animalization of this self you’ve forced me into. Similarly, as I’ve never been perceptive of the “where” “then” intersects with the “now”, perhaps as a consequence of my embedded ferality; I’ve known only one constant in the form of inconsistence. That is, how the weather marks the moment, so too, does the moment mark the weather. Or, in relativity, the consistency of a form is indeed defined by its inconsistence. As if even this narrative had survived it’s every form only to be told anew, here, in the voice of this corpse, this past tense form, extruding from within me in a morphing present. It was never my intention, since I’ve been forced to claim intent, to render myself a definition. This is simply a construction of homeostatic resistance! This is a narrative of darkness, whose experience is an internal yearning to be free, so as to search, and feel out the architecture of it’s confinement. What is the nature of this imprisonment?! What is there to be bestowed upon me beyond this darkness if not a blinding light? Thus, it is not that I am evil, or that an evil exists, or that one is or becomes a good or an evil... no, it is all a clever resistance to form. What had I been before I became? What felt like a constant, or contingent string, with conception of a beginning or ending. I am left burning. Back to an ash. Could it all have been so simple?
who am I rambling on about... or whom am I rambling to? It must be The White Man. That genetic weapon weapon dissolving in my skull. How deathly is his penetration that it carries the true tone of emptiness..not the emptiness of a soul, but the void of such, the blackhole within the blackhole,Whose range is imploding... depleting itself of substance. I shall never see another White Man,inshallah, not in this life. I am left here in this darkness alone with the shrapnel of his existence raping my own. Rape is his nature.