[Written on 21/12/2015]
He is the body.
And there is a jarring irony in this temporal notion of being, lacing with the subtlest of malice-strung intents through wiry courses of circulating substance — dead cells from bio-morgues that pool into liquid visibility at the most feeble of pricks and the most triumphantly titanic of brazen massacres, the excavation of entrails and the demented hacking of tendons and bone and of all of the cumbersome little minutiae that buzz frenetically in between.
— And in all these things, a niggling finiteness buds, stinging with a bitter relapse of the bygone.
He loathes this, as he does most things.
The oppressive confinement of an unwieldy brittle mould, the precedence of an illogically imperative sustenance, of feeding bulky, beating masses and hideous, dripping lumps in cardinal subservience — and for what?
They are the antithesis of possibility, of the exalted cortex and its poised nexus of cosmic visions and acute flashes of prophecy.
And of this he has been certain for as long as he’s lived, that the noble lauding of vitamins and material supplements, that the prostrate worshipping of charts of circadian cycles and shrill, shrieking calls to eat, drink and sleep—
Embody the pinnacle of folly, down to its transcendental provenance.
In spite of this glaring error of design — he must concede — there are assets to be wrung from the tiresome scheme of the biological being.
There is the apparatus of maneuvering, and of deploying bladed projectiles at the scum that waft vexingly across his vision–
— And, oh. there is the relish of the dissonance that follows in earnest pursuit: the timely sirens of arrant pain, and the crescendo of agony that sketches a tune of victory in his ears.
And then, there are the lips, the mechanism of articulation and, of greater utility, trial. They funnel masked riddles and muddling charades, penetrating and ruthless as they partake in the dredging of foibles and the callous appraisal of faculty’s bounds.
But best of all are his nails, he surmises. Tiny, contoured slabs of yet another elusive fibre of many, narrowed and curved into an… effectual substitute.
The recourse for an absence of honed, forged blades. The most basal of armaments for the deflection of threat.
The slashing of pride and the searing of trust, the drawing of plumes of gray and globules of red and the strangled contortion of a countenance and the rumblings of ire and tragedy and more of that, please, if you will, and you will—
And there comes a chilling standstill, as time retracts its agency in equal mortification of this ghastly, odious deed. And there is, for perhaps the first time since this fallacious, fleshy mould came into being–
–a hike of agony that breaches all known frequencies.
And at this tremulously climactic spike of a frisson, he is inclined to reflect again — on how wonderful and marvelous and thrilling and soul-charging it is to carve with these disguised claws and to sow the festering seeds of ruin into a sacrosanct insignia of petty pursuits and bloated heroism he’d sooner crush beneath his heel, and one so conveniently inked onto the sheath of his… impractical physical entity.
It is also then when he realizes, amidst the fury that boils in the air and the incipient echoes of ‘traitor, traitor’ in the crooks and the nooks of his gnarled mind–
–that the presence of a body is not quite so bad after all.