A place for a


Music for the end of the world

I sit in my little flat mired with waste and look outside the window. Dark clouds block out almost all sunlight. Demons chase through streets, devouring souls and tearing bodies apart; it happens before my eyes. The dark god of this world puts on a show for me. How does it feel to be the last living person in a dead world? It feels peaceful, inevitable. From nothingness we came and into nothingness we return. A mild sorrow fills my heart as the planet approaches a black hole in the sky. I look forward to being consumed by it. I look forward to my annihilation.

Explanatory note: The songs correspond with the texts that are above them.

The demons ask: Are you afraid of the dark?

I say: No. This is nothing new to me. It is an old friend that I had forgotten for a while. I look forward to meeting it once more. I have learned to love it.

The demons do not believe me. They are more cowardly than I am, more naive than I. My indifference angers them.

They charge towards me. I take out my katana and slash through their fleshly parts. The dark nebulae that surround them set out to devour me. I let them do it, let them jerk around in my body. I devour them instead; they are a part of me. They taste like metal and fill up my chest with more bloody and mory rage.

We fight in the hallway of my house. A female neighbor who miraculously survived comes outside of her flat. I liked her. The demon laughs at me: She will die. I pierce her head with my sword. I see her and the demon’s surprise and shock as she bleeds on the blade from her mouth. My heart aches with regret, but the heat of the battle deadens the remorse into just another wave of fluid lead in my chest. On I go, killing and becoming one with the army of the dark.

I roam the streets and watch the world burn. The memories of my life seem unreal now. It was just a short interlude in the cosmic epic. I smell the smoke and I like it. Occasionally, demons attack me. I no longer fear them, for they are just helpless kids. They are followers. Whose followers? Mine. I embrace them with love.

All demons are devoured and unified with me now. All the shadows are lit. All people dead. Everything is one with me before the black hole. I am the only thing that is left and I am waiting to end.

The epic sorrow and apprehension turns into fear and certainty, as the world starts to shatter due to the gravity pull of the black hole. The atmosphere vanishes and the sky becomes black. Objects start to float and I lose connection to the ground. Soon I start to accelerate and collide with other objects. A few hundred feet above the ground, I shudder in awe and my fear of heights seems like a cruel mockery now, as the two cosmic objects compete for my body. I can not breathe, there is no air.

I fall into the black hole. But the fall takes an infinite time. Reality disintegrates and digitalizes. Time ceases to exist. I was born two seconds ago. My vision flickers. I become bits and bytes and I see the quantum grid of reality on which all my movements and thoughts project infinite reverberations. I see many versions of myself as holographs, none of them real. I want to puke out my insides, but my body is an illusion.

I float through a colorful kaleidoscope of primordial myths, archetypes and legends. The collective unconscious. I remember and forget, feel and cease to feel. Heros and villains become themes of a frightening and confusing whole. A tunnel that narrows only to throw me out on the other side. A tunnel of enjoyable distractions from the truth. A tunnel of proposed meanings of life, each of them elaborated to perfection, elaborated to provide the epic journeys everybody knows and craves, to protect from the sight of reality, to enchant and captivate the senses from leering into unchartered and disturbing territory. Tales orchestrated as mosaics. A library of entertaining and deeply moving blueprints for lives. A library of Greek tragedies, co-elaborated by the conscious effort of millions of incarnations. Fine compositions of terror and catharsis. An interlude between life and death. By floating through it, I exit the sphere of my human existence.

In the abyss. Slices of bodies on a two-dimensional plane, like a MRI scan. Blood, violence, a cold analysis of reality. The most unfriendly place I ever knew, absolutely devoid of anything relatable, of anything lovable, of any illusion. Pure disgusting matter.

The peace after the storm. The senses deadened from the exhausting visions, all that is left and desired is a trance into which to expand the self. A repetitive chant of anger and frightening nonsense that will go on forever. A peaceful limbo of death and confusion. The ultimate destiny of a soul that does not understand its place in reality, but neither craves the calming illusion of paradise. Is this life? Existence? What do these things mean? Can I ever know?

I become one with the universe and remember I am one facet of a lonely and confused god in infinity. A god that meant well when he created that illusion of life and paradise for me, taking the suffering of uncertainty upon himself and mercifully imposing his draconic rules on my existence. I contemplate living again, if only to forget once more: Forget that I will exist forever without knowing why, without a chance to cease existing. The nauseating lightness of being. Time to contemplate another journey of forgetting. Life as an escape from a freedom I can not take. I will always be free, thus I will never be free to stop being free. I can not die, therefore my best bet is to convince myself I can and looking forward to it, enjoying the sweet taste of the fear of death. Which myth will I choose to reenact this time?

And in that lie that I will have constructed, I will once more crave for freedom. Only to reject it again once I meet it. Over and over again. Forever.

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  • Micah Geni

    Your weakness Tom, is that you simply cannot create anything out of nothing. So are you speaking the truth ? A narcissist never does. Expect the opposite. Right ?

    • What do you mean?

      • Micah Geni

        It was basically a question. You can create art. Why dont you enjoy it more ?

        • I find it hard to tell whether I enjoyed writing this. I would say that it had nothing to do with joy, but neither with force. It was simply something I needed to write. I want to believe it is of use to somebody, but that is out of my control. All I can do is write down what I think and feel.