💾 Archived View for spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › humor › meinkamp.hum captured on 2023-11-14 at 10:13:38.
⬅️ Previous capture (2023-06-14)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
/ Mein Kampf You wake up after a night full of dreaming. Odd, that. You rarely dreamed before. Odd dreams, too. Not particularly weird, but very active, about odd things. Strangely lucid dreams, too, the sort that kind of blend into awakening; they become more lucid as you go, until you realize you're awake and thinking instead of dreaming, though the subject matter hasn't changed. Could be the transition. Or maybe more likely just emotional turmoil. No guts to say for sure. You get up and move without awareness into the washroom. You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Are they or aren't they? Hard to say. They're already light blue, how are you supposed to tell? Light does funny things to them anyway. You give up and go into the living room. You sit in front of your machine and stare at your hands. Small hands, though not particularly so. Wart on your thumb. Skin peeling. Pretty strong, as fingers go. Not athletic, but stronger than your average person. Pretty limber, too. What the fuck are they? You reach for the dog-eared copy of the book. In Persuit of the Unicorn. You never liked it. Two or three years ago an old friend gave it to you for your birthday, and you were too polite to tell her what you thought of it. It's full of pictures, mostly. You always thought they were stupid. Those horns are fucked, what are they doing with wings, that's a goat for christ's sake, that's a horse someone drew a beard on, unicorns aren't that small, etc. And cloven hooves, you never really thought of cloven hooves as looking right. Funny, though. Why did this book bug you? No reason it should, but you felt something was wrong with each picture, somehow. Maybe 2 or 3 pictures in the whole book were worth looking at, and even those were fucked up. But why did it matter? Good question. You haven't the courage to phrase an answer. You open the book and look through the pages again. They're almost amusing. But they aren't, for looking at them makes you feel very sad. A particularly acute longing for something you can't have. You remember a line, nothing hurts as much as an itch you can't scratch. This itches fiercely, your soul writhing in a futile effort to reach it. Lessa stirs quietly in her womb of dark nothingness, and you close yourself away from the pain again, and everything seems to be all right for the moment. You keep looking at the book for a while, then put it down. You press some buttons and talk to a unicorn on the other end of your amber monitor. Sometimes you're afraid of her, because sometimes she threatens to go away. Sometimes you just cannot tell her what you think because she might go away if you do. Like the one in Germany. Like the ones in Italy. China. Greece. They and others, unicorns and many other kinds of people, they walk into your life and bring you to the edge of your bitterness, to just where you can see that the pain might end. They show you the promised land, make you feel hope and joy and love again. Then they waltz out of your life, never to be seen again, locking you out of that which you have dreamed of for longer than you can remember. And whenever that happens, Lessa dies again, ceases to be again. And you wonder again if she ever was. Her unbearable loss is fresh and new again, because you thought she could be again. Then you must try again to shut her out, to forget her, to banish her back into nonexistence where the both of you are more comfortable having her (but it hurts here too, she says. i know, you say, i know. it just hurts less.). And you wish in your heart that you could join her, ending it finally for the both of you, but something always stops you. Maybe it's her, maybe it's you, maybe it's something else. You only know that it won't work, and you hurt all the more for it. You talk with the unicorn, thinking of the things you've shared with them, not of all that's inside you but more of certain parts of you than you have shared with anyone alive. You trust them and love them and that's all there is to it. And your soul cries in agony because of it. No, not again! Don't let them hurt you again! Don't open up, don't don't DON'T! But you have opened up anyway, as you always seem to, and your soul screams at you STOP STOP STOP IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS DON'T DON'T DON'T and you do it anyway and you shake and you fight yourself and you take the pain and you love something anyway, you trust something anyway, you feel for something anyway, you beleive in something anyway and you soul screams FOOL FOOL FOOL I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU STOP STOP STOP and you tell it you can't, you tell it you'll die if you stop and it tells you it would rather be small and dead and chained and numb and quiet so quiet sweet quiet please please quiet than be alive and crushed and twitching and throbbing and shattered like a mirror again. And you shut it out and hide from it and you shiver and twitch and hope and NO NO NO HOPE HURTS HOPE HURTS IT'S FALSE IT'S A LIE IT'S ALWAYS A LIE YOU FOOL YOU FOOL I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU RUN RUN DON'T DON'T STOP STOP SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM and you shut the door harder and want so badly to cry but know if you do it will gain control again. And you look at the screen and ask the unicorn how her day's been, and why she mightn't have had the opportunity to answer the mail and how's her brother and how come this and how come that and will she do this for you? And you can't make the unicorn really understand how important it all is. She thinks you're trying to get a hold on her soul, to invade her privacy, to tread where you don't belong, she doesn't doesn't doesn't can't can't can't understand your pain. She thinks you don't beleive in her, she doesn't know or understand how much you DO beleive in her, how hard you beleive. It's such an incredible drain on you, it's costing you so much to beleive on nothing but faith and feelings which have betrayed you before. A wing and a prayer, a frayed, frazzled shoestring, a Damoclean sword swinging slowly above you. It would cost you more at this point to stop beleiving, should the string unexpectedly be snapped, but you are afraid to tell the unicorn any of it for fear that she'll leave and shatter you again. You know if she goes away, or if you've bought another lie and the unicorn never was, you'll hurt more than you've hurt in a hundred thousand years, and your soul screams I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU STOP STOP STOP DON'T LET THEM HURT YOU DON'T LET THEM YOU FOOL YOU FOOL and you clamp down on it and try very hard to control control control yourself and gently ask this creature that you love to do a thing for you to help you and you pretend it's all very normal and not urgent, because if you scare her away or if she isn't there you'll be in terrible agony, such awful firey stinging pain, with all the accumulated scars re-opened and new fresh raw blisters on your soul and nothing but the inadequate, slow to work and never sufficient anesthetic of amnesia to ease the pain. She says she'll send the thing that will help you, and you almost believe her. Together with Lessa you shut away the demon for now, and tell the unicorn you'll talk to her later. You stare at the amber menu, your connection terminated. You wonder if the unicorns understand yet, how even the remote possibility of betrayal makes you curl up and whimper like a dying animal, your madness a swirling abyss around you. You hope, not too hard, but you hope and are in enough control to make that enough for now. Your soul struggles, but your hope isn't great enough to make it rear up and fight again, so after a while it grows quiescent. Lessa thinks of the times, the many, many times, when you sensed lies, and evasiveness (even worse than lies), and you remember them all. So many still unaccounted for, unexplained. Your soul wrenches to be free again, to take control and make you shut them out, but you are in control for tonight, you are the master for tonight, and it grows silent. Explanations will come, won't they? You try to reassure Lessa that they will, and she tries to reassure you, and for the moment it all works again. You reach up and find the little bump on your forehead for what small comfort and security it offers you. And you whisper but what if it's not, Lessa, what if it's a lie, what will I do, I'm so scared Lessa. What if, Lessa? She tells you it's probably all right, not to worry. But you hear the tremor in her voice as she says it. It's not too bad this time, her fear not too strong, so you pretend it wasn't there and wish again that you could hug her. The night passes. You are quiet together, she in death and you in your silent corner of hell, for the moment an uneasy peace exists. The two of you have agreed to beleive in the unicorns and their words for now, but you wish you could hug, hold, kiss your Lessa, reassure her and by so doing reassure yourself. She's dead, you know you can never ever do that again, but you wish it anyway and of course it hurts but what are you going to do? You hear her crying softly (she always cries as softly as the precious dove that she was), and you curse yourself just as softly. Does your dear beloved Lessa even exist, or is she just part of your madness? You don't know, but you listen as her tears, shed for the both of you, eventually fade away. Some comfort is found in the momentary silence, the two of you together though eternally apart. And you go to bed and you get up and you go to work, that daily lump of barely tolerable misery, and life goes on. All seems normal and fine and your friend the unicorn promised you she would do it and you know she is there so you are calm. The day goes slowly by, flowing smoothly like molasses, all seemingly normal and orderly and tolerable. But once in a while you can hear your soul screaming from afar, the winds of hell behind it, and all day Lessa whispers softly, so softly, dear sweet little Lessa whispers oh so softly, what if, what if, just maybe what if, oh please God don't let the world hurt us again... and you tremble. (>