When you sink into an all-consuming couch, psychologically oppressed by the ugly huffing and emulous snifflings, as Ted so delicately put, of moronic twats, the only thought to surface from this extensive void of mentality, in which humanity astutely named our Conscious, is ‘Christ, he has hairs sprouting from his nose’ and the agonising need to understand existence, for fear of descending into clinical insanity.
It begins much the same way: life goes on, colourfully denying all rights of privacy, of solitude and possibly our actual want of it, or maybe it isn’t life that perseveres so vehemently, but rather language. Language, the tool of the human race, one which is maltreated; its entrails and organs wrenched, piled into glistening towers of a large discarded carcass, and letters that wouldn’t mean a thing to an 18th century rector, let alone whoever’s ingenious idea it was to discover the art of communication.
It’s at this moment in time when, after analysing the situation and coming to the conclusion that yes, somehow you’ve managed to bypass insanity, you realise ‘life’ is a cadaver intended for dissection; a metaphorical something that is too extended to get our heads around. We reside on the shores of our own subconscious, acutely aware of an ever expansive landscape that flickers in and out of mundane vision.
It begins much the same way: life goes on, colourfully denying all rights of privacy, of solitude and possibly our actual want of it, or maybe it isn’t life that perseveres so vehemently, but rather language. Language, the tool of the human race, one which is maltreated; its entrails and organs wrenched, piled into glistening towers of a large discarded carcass, and letters that wouldn’t mean a thing to an 18th century rector, let alone whoever’s ingenious idea it was to discover the art of communication.
It’s at this moment in time when, after analysing the situation and coming to the conclusion that yes, somehow you’ve managed to bypass insanity, you realise ‘life’ is a cadaver intended for dissection; a metaphorical something that is too extended to get our heads around. We reside on the shores of our own subconscious, acutely aware of an ever expansive landscape that flickers in and out of mundane vision.
