beacon light

The day the war ended and the atheist died I turned 27.

In one year, the world will end.

And I can’t wait.

Fast forward to the sterling bliss that is the sleep - my eternal rest in the face of chaos. It is not my choice, not yours, and it sure as hell isn’t HIS.

It will be the sea’s decision to rise and drown the open mouths screaming for them to cease. As disinterested the Earth is, in its quiet continued movement, will never listen. Not one note of concentrated human suffering could prevent the fire from consuming; the radiation from spreading. Prayers for forgiveness pierce like rifle blasts as our coffin lowers; the ground quaking with each trigger pull.

In 2012, chaos reigns.

The year we nothing. We walk down the road and not across the street. We slip our last; fuck our final; blow the bucket.

I can see it all live; I can see it all now. Tsunamis will awash the poor in malaria milk, frothing over their histories in the time it takes for the rich to text a five-dollar donation. My lips quiet to my fingers fucking doom. Release valves will shutter and burst like acne across America’s face, bubbling blood and poison to the upper crust.  I will canoe through the reddish-yellow blend erupting like the river Styx on my way home. Wade through my own filth to rob the neighbor’s groceries. My family’s hungry too, ya know. Survival and hunger are simply the beast’s best weapons.

I tip-toe past reason to pick up the gun. I got no kids, just a cat and whole pile of shit.

With my gun, I’m as animal as I am god. But it can’t save me. The dark watery waves will nonetheless wash my body down the deep water horizon delta, where others rest and wait.

The dead zone.

My childhood.

The innocence replays refreshing its taste. That golden gift of not knowing is as powerful as the gift of forever. My ignorance as I ran. Collected frogs. Walked home. Danced to the radio. Sung in my car. Masturbated to boys. Took pictures of pictures. Pet my pet. Believed in god. Believed in science. Believed in Rock. Ate too many cookies. Had too much to drink. Had to little to spend. My face smiling and screaming through the day and night.

Leaping through time till now.

Till the end.

Forever.

Amen.  

Dear Ms. Ingiborg von Sittsowity,

Life as we know it comes to an end, not through death, I must inform. Instead it lies in seeing everything at once; life’s grand peaks and valleys in one giant crescendo. From this perspective, I can witness all the webbed connections vying for dominance only to mix and blend wildly beyond expectation. I see my birth. My love. My children. From space, Ms. Von Sittsowity, I can see it all.

It is grand, I assure.

In one sense, this death is the end of my old self. A time of personal blindness, once encompassing, now entirely exorcized like the ignorance it was. This perspective of mine changes men’s minds. And yours too, I’m afraid!

I can already see it, and death is all that there is. Ever ending and eating upon the fools dumb enough to perceive it, it pushes us into the future – if we can even call it that anymore.

The future.

Spread it over ourselves like peanut butter on rye. I miss that the most, please send some back.

Sincerely yours in time,

Higgiu lo Hiaui

P.S. TEAR DOWN THIS WALL

xoxxo