Shoeboxes

The secret to being miserable is to have leisure to bother about whether you are happy or not. The cure for it is occupation.
George Bernard Shaw

Excerpt from Box 305: I want my idols to beat the fuck out of them

Emptiness shrouds us. To my way of thinking, emptiness is easier to handle than obligations. Emptiness makes it possible to tread along the line of insanity; obligations envelop us in a gateless circle of insanity. I wish I had people I looked up to, who would come to my rescue and kick the shit out of those people I hate. Odd, this rationalization coming from a pacifist. I wish there was some guitar hero or writer who could help. This is reality, though. There isn’t one soul I would like to harm, save for a handful of cretins. I wish it was more simple - reason is harder to generate than brute force. I suppose it’s difficult for people who're used to employing brute force as a solution to everything to understand this analogy. Trust me, it isn't to condescend any of you. You people, quite plainly, are a virus. Even if I was born because of you. Possibly, it partly is because I was Born, that I posess an everlasting contempt. Isn't it nice to see a moral idiot, and a sexist idiot, fight to the death, to gain the Superior hand in inconsequential Cattle Crap? And, even more dementedly, I have to pretend what they do is something rather cloy and innocent? Get real, for a microsecond, Stupidity isn't my forte.

Why are firearms illegal?
Legalize them.
I would lock those two in a room, place firearms in their hands, and go out for an evening stroll. While I walk aimlessly, I would buy overalls, disinfectants, and plenty of cloth. I would come back to a blood splattered room, proceed to bag the splintered body parts, mop up the blood, throw the guns away, travel to a place where I know no one, and start my full-fledged career in unemployment.

Unique solution, definitely. Better than legal proceedings, surely. More effective than divorce, isn’t it? Or how about drugging them, then as they’re waking up to find themselves tied next to each other, proceed to shoot off their kneecaps? All four of them? As the gagged pair start to writhe, in convulsions, perhaps I could assist them by gashing their temples with electric drills, then dumping them in an over-flowing bathtub, where they truly get to drown in their marrows...

My idols always got me thinking. Their idols told them to hate one another, but it’s better to live with one another, no matter what. Hey, I’m returning the favor. Isn’t there something about together in Life and Death, which is advocated in the institution of marriage? I’m just moving it along, in tune with that mindless rhetoric.

Excerpt from Box 79: Sweetness

A garden is tamed flora. The same way a farm consists of tamed animals. We use techniques like these to tame fellow human beings everyday. I suppose it’s a form of Hortus Conclusus, that people in power would love to implement. Is it difficult to comprehend? I find it hard to figure out, why people haven’t understood how unenlightened intelligent design is. Oh right. Because we haven’t understood most things with science, the obvious reasoning is a supernatural entity is responsible for it. That, apparently, is the default position. What I fail to understand is this - taking any other fantastic claim into consideration, we have either no proof, or the facts haven’t come in to conclusively prove or disprove that fantastic position. The default position, therefore, is having no faith. Don’t come to me and say I’m immoral or unimaginative or ignorant, because you’re scared shitless into an asinine, arbitrary position to ensure you don’t get punished for eternity, in case there is an existent supernatural force capable of that. I’d rather stand up for sense to comfort any day. Misconception is more harmful than unbiased honesty, let me make that clear. First consider becoming completely honest and being more tolerant of each other, then we’ll start to discuss morals in general. Conduct a sweep with honesty. It certainly hasn't been tried ever before.

How sweet is Oblivion, you ask? It's almost indescribable bliss.

Excerpt from Box 201: Shoeboxes

This isn’t a story, solely a methodology on how I work. I compile random writings into shoeboxes. Each shoebox comprises a story, or an article, and the accumulated papers that go into each of these shoeboxes are all the points I would add to form the perspective I want the reader to form, collectively, on reading everything from every one of those individual boxes. I label each box by whatever name I use to title a story, and staple the basic plot of the story, outside each box. I then constantly write anything, connected or unconnected, and then decide which one of those boxes the random material would go into. So far, five hundred and nineteen shoeboxes.

********************************************************

Venus: Come online now…

X: For what?

Venus: Shut the fuck up… and turn up your webcam while you’re at it…

X: Fine   - CLICK -

Venus: Say hello, will you?

X: …coming…

Venus: Switch on the webcam…

X: There…

Venus: Hi… Hey… What is all this?

X: My material…

Venus: I’m referring to the shoeboxes…

X: I’m referring to the same thing…

Venus: You’ve got two rooms covered up with writing, and you publish nothing? Then, you have the gall to tell me they’re stacked in shoeboxes. What’s wrong with you?

X: Nothing is… I’m gonna get something to drink…

Venus: Are you sure you have a clean room to find drinks?

X: Here…

Venus: This room is spotless, while the other two look like shoddy Accounts Departments… What’s your secret?

X: I rarely use it.

Venus: You mean the room with the fridge, the bed, the table and shelves - is the one you rarely use?

X: Almost never.

Venus: What’s happened to you?

X: Nothing vastly different from before. It’s just that now, you’ve digitally walked into something that resembles how I always was, within my head.

Venus: I’ll have a drink too. I think I need to calm down.

X: Suit yourself.

Venus: Where are you going?

X: To get my drug of choice… I’ll be right back…

Venus: Hey… turn the webcam back on…

Venus: Where the fuck are you?

Venus: That’s it, I’m calling the cops…

Venus: Respond to my calls, you moron…

Venus: Hello, 911? I need you to run a trace on a friend. He isn’t picking up my calls, and he just said he was about to take something…

911: Take something, Ma’am?

Venus: Some drug, for fucks sake… Could you look into it?

911: Address please?

Venus: I have no idea what his address is… I’ll pass you the number. Could you trace it, and find out where he is?

911: We’ll do all we can, Ma’am.

2 hours later

Cop: Miss Venus, this is Officer Stevens, LAPD. Could you come down to xxx, xxxx xxxx, road, xxxxx… It’s in connection to a suicide…

Venus: Is he alive?

Cop: Who is?

Venus: The guy who’s dead in the apartment… I made the 911 emergency call, after all…

Cop: I think it’s better if you saw for yourself…

Venus: Is he dead or not?

Cop: I’m afraid he is.

Venus: … I’ll be right there…

25 minutes later

Cop: The deceased had an overdose of heroin. We’re not sure what to do with these…

Venus: The boxes? Aren't those... what your agency would call, evidence?

Cop: We’ve already taken copies and scoured around for prints. Which I think is pointless, in this case. It looks to me like fictional rambles… And we haven’t found any other prints besides the deceased’s own. In any case, it’s pretty obvious this was a suicide.

Venus: I’ll take them… Do me a favor, allow me to read these…

Cop: Help yourself, Miss.

4 hours later

Venus: Could you call me a big truck?

Cop: This is for…

Venus: I need to take these boxes away…

Cop: Sure… to do what with them, though?

Venus: To burn them.

Cop: Excuse me?

Venus: Burn them. They aren’t worth anything, since the author took it into his ridiculous head that he had no use of living anymore…

Cop: Uh…

(Venus)
The truck arrived after a while, and took a longer while to load the boxes. I rode out tailing the truck, and asked them to meet me at the city dump. Once we’re there, we unload the boxes, and I proceeded to burn them to the surprise of the truckers. If he were still alive, and if this was anyone else’s material, the author of this collection of ramblings would’ve stopped it anyway he could. At least, when he still was the person I knew him as.
Now, I can’t be sure…

He would’ve called it a waste of thought. I think it’s pointless to come to terms with the immense purpose of this material when it hadn’t benefited the author at all. This material can never serve the most basic purpose it had, which was turning out the author from perpetual squalor and despair. The world does not deserve anything this good. It deserves to die out, just as its author did. Because the world never accepted something of genuine value, ever.

I have this premise for a book, though, which is a culmination of all the titles of his individual shoeboxes, and then I connect them into an art form of my making, not his. If anything, this is the only form of dedication I can give him, which is as obscure as he was.

***********************************************************

Excerpt from Book 519: Wake from Lake Ruin

I lie, awake, with a throbbing headache. It’s interesting to note how, even in the darkest depths of despair, there are certain memories, which unconsciously bring a smile. I’m a diseased shell of a person, I can hardly breath from the damage to my internal organs, I can hardly think from the constant derangement to my mind. Apparently, that isn’t justification enough for Euthanasia. If your life is just a never-ending series of despondency, devoid of any reason and genuine pleasure, what’s the harm in ending it with heroin?
There’s this lasting paroxysm of pleasure, right there, to end a life, of endless hate and pointlessness. An act that would fulfill a final wish could be equated to a genuine miracle; to be able to end an existence this bleak with a substance that would ensure temporary spasms of happiness, painless bliss, resulting, rather unknowingly, into death. Seems wonderful to me.

The world hasn’t lost a great mind. If this was truly the case, the world would’ve embraced the disenfranchised, and the drugged-out, and the impoverished. That, clearly, isn’t the case.
If anyone reads my writings after I’m dead; which I probably am by now; consider this. If you have a chance to change your life, no matter how inconsequentially small that change is, Take it. It’s the only cohesive thought I can really put across efficiently, without retreating into self-pity, or other such nonsense. Live life as extremely, and engagingly, as humanly possible. Everything else, matters far too little to obsess over or think about. 


END