the sound of the sound of

if words are lies and i am words, does that make me a lie?

what can people be if not words, or at least synthesized by words, thus becoming lies. does the mute alone know truth, or a baby for whom the experience of life is not yet tainted by the desire that comes with being alive itself? what is muteness? what is the eye of the mute, what is the tongue? the eye of the mute must be knowledge itself, the tongue is the mind which contains a hundred swirling images. but even images are lies. everything, all is lies. whatever is human is lies. not language itself, but anything and everything we inhale into our bodies taints, diseases anything with the act of moving itself the fuck-rhythm of being human itself. is the fuck a lie? or is it the only truth i thought i knew?

is that the inherent problem? is the body a lie? my body is a lie, all lies, but does that means all bodies are lies? i used to believe that the body is the only truth but now i see that it is as much a device or prop or simulacra of pure mendacity as the devil itself. is physicality the lie?

matter seems to be the problem. the problem of matter is material; words or bodies. the minute something takes form itself, it becomes lie. the very weight of thought itself settling is lie, pure evil lies. or does evil not exist in the first place? is a word we toss around with tears in our eyes so we do not need to explain how certain things could come into being. possibly. because the act of material being lie itself is too much to endure. the contradiction between material as proof and constance of lie itself is what drives us to madness.

there is no purity. there is no goodness. there is nothing falling into nothing, just wall after wall of black, like some superhero who peels layer after layer of clothing over hoping to expose finally the salvation inside, but there is nothing but illusion. everything is failure. all is not merely deviant, but neutered, of walking abortion, of the agony of existence as the ultimate extended form of not even death, but being dead.

my skin itself. if i could tear it off and extinguish , i might. but in the effort not to die surrounded by lies, i must go on eating pure blood child lies. hopefully, at some point the buffet will end and then i'll only have to finish up my own stale vomit of lies.

you fucking liar.