Once the Charm of an Absurd Existence is Spent. . .

If I say my life is absurd, it is not because I mean to boast but because I wish to force a reconciliation between my self and my belief in all life being absurd. So I repeat so: my life is absurd.

Oh!

Faking excitement now consumes much of my day. I blame everyone.

I wrote a small little nothing a few months back. It goes like this: "But, most of all, we are what we are not." It meant little back then. A nothing. A something that was just contrary enough to amuse me.

Then, yesterday, I finally realized what my subconscious was trying to tell me. I was talking or walking or eating or whatever-the-fuck-it-is-that-I-do-now and suddenly I realized I do not have a subconsciousness. I do not have a consciousness. I am empty.

I am what the rest of the universe uses to counterpoint itself.

I am where the rest of the universe stores its junk.

I am a non-entity pressed into existence for the sake of the universe.

I am the bit of plastic the pole-vaulting Universe uses to stay in the air. I am not the pole. I am the bit of plastic that it snags ("plants" makes its role seem benign) its pole in to life off.

As soon as I realized what I had realized, I felt the weight of the entire Universe (minus me if it is that I do exist) pressing against me. I suddenly felt extremely inviolable but also extremely unhappy.

Paranoia is a strange and lovable thing but to suddenly come to know that the universe has created me solely for its selfish purpose of continuing its existence is not really anything like the wet dream I remember having about the time I finally figure out the purpose of my being.

Calling it acute claustrophobia is putting this feeling mildly. Claustrophobia--as I see it--relies on the person's knowing that there is a small possibility that the self can explode (or just swell up) to exactly fit the dimensions of the confined space it is in. There is something about joined walls that makes us want to feel them out, to lick them all over, and to have our forms be one with them.

But the Universe? Does it have walls? Can my fear of open spaces be reconciled with my fear of closed spaces? Not bloody likely.

I feel like I will choke on the next breath of air I take.

I am reading Dostoevsky and Kafka again. I remember now the state of feverish excitement my first reading of "Crime and Punishment" brought and also the indifference towards Kafka my first reading of "The Metamorphosis" brought. This time around, I realize why Dostoevsky could read my mind and why I did not care about the problems of Gregor Samsa.


I am the Underground Man and I am Gregor Samsa. I am my novel's hero and I am extremely indifferent to what I say or do.

To pervert what Kafka says: "I am the nihilistic thought that came into my mind."

Or rather into the Universe's mind because it does not seem likely that I have a mind to call my own.

And to describe myself with a final metaphor: "I am not the person the rest of the universe talks to, cares about, and makes love to. I am the condom it uses to fuck itself."