The Abyss Of Everyday Life

A bunch of animals, pretending to be a family. That's what it all was!

And everything is smeared in some sort of animal's shit, everywhere, not even an attempt at hiding it no; the vile, ignoble past nagging wholeheartedly from the back of your mind, and that damn sword, dangling above your head, black on one side and white on the other, rusty all over, written in red on its blade ''this too shall pass''...

Oh to be a statue, to watch the flow of time eternally, unholy rivers of blood, flesh and steel, of oils and dreams, rot all over, festival of the numb, the comfortable, the forsaken, the weak yes!

Hurling, hurling forward, our silouhettes distorded from the sheer speed, confusion abound, one thing and another and another, their weight exponential..

And so small and naive we all are, from the tiniest of men to the mightiest. How many of the greats died absurd deaths, ridiculous endings of such grandiose beings, all rendered equals in the face of the, big sleep, the agony of the butterfly, eaten mere seconds after its first flight,

decaying already in the fleshy womb of the bright phoenix, soaring high, toward the white, blinding light, going higher and higher than everything, its wings melting from the heat, its face melting from the heat, its body melting from the heat, until, facing the holy sun above it all, a charred ensemble of bones, a beak, and the third birth of the insect, no longer crawling or flying, the insect is above all that, in the face of absolute truth;

Gone are the doubts, the worries, the mediocrity, gone are the doubts, the worries, the mediocrity, gone, is it all, as the man looks at his reflection in the mirror, stained by weeks of neglect, the smell forgotten, akin to the dream of hope, of respite, of escape, and back in its dank pit the man lays down, escaping like he ever did, the present, the reality, this existence, forever smeared in some animal's shit, shamelessly; anything that is holy, utterly desecrated, violated, evil, for some reason..

Yet that man sleeps like a baby, awakes the next day, ready to do it all over again, to grab, clutch, hold for a second, this fleeting dream, of the ascended butterfly, of this nonsensical hope, driving him forward, propelling him forward, amidst the abyss of everyday life.