Realization, paralyzation, rationalization. Is mundanity what life is? It can’t be. I want to feel like I’m dying. I want to feel like I’m dying every day. I want to live like I’m dying every day. I want to love like I’m dying every day. I want to burn. I want to burn and disintegrate. I want to burn and break down. I want to feel it burn like acid washing the inner cavities of my brain coils, licking the inner cage of my ribs, eating away at the meat of my heart. In the end I want to be nothing. Nothing but memory. Nothing but a permanent record in an impermanent history. I want you to live. Live on in the record of footprints. I want to dust the fingerprints of mankind, of you, of all of the yous. I want you to enter my life and rupture with the richness of humanity; volcanic. I want everybody to suffer. I want everybody to suffer as much as they possibly can. I want everybody to try to suffer as much as they possibly can. I want everybody to try to suffer as much as they possibly can so that they can feel. Do you know what it’s like to feel yet? Have you ever felt like crumbling? Have you ever felt like melting? Have you ever felt like imploding, breaking string plucking vibrating? Have you ever felt like dying? Because of you, because of your self, because of this overwhelming wash of life? Dying because you couldn’t possibly contain this emotion derivative of human, of thought, conscious, conscience? Feelings squirm in your gut. They wriggle their way in and begin to feed on whatever you offer. Is there anything else that feels like this on the planet? Do clams ever feel trapped in their boardwalk colonies? Like they just wish they could express themselves with vibrant colors? Is that what pearls are? Do lions roar because at soul they are anxious with their perceived presence? Is it a show, that they really just want to bury their bashful faces in chest and purr unashamed of weakness? I am a house. I am a house filled with people. I am a burning house filled with people. I am a burning house filled with people who are screaming. Are you screaming inside of me? Because it feels like you are. I want to hold that for you. I want to give that to you. I want to scream with you. Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair that we had no choice but to be here. It’s not fair that we are responsible for our own existence. It’s not fair that we were left here suffer. But we were and it means so much that we are. It’s in that. In a touch and a look. It’s in the meeting of irises; floral like your petals. They open a sweet scent. A scent I want to die in. If only for a brief moment, to come back to life and suffer more with everybody, with you, with all of the beautiful yous.
– Jaime Dyna La Mondain
(Artwork by Mario S. Nevado and Victor Murillo. See more here.)