A loose page, frantic writing of an esoteric mind dwelling on nothing and everything, floats freely to be found and read by any:
Of course, my compatriot, my enemy, we cannot talk about love without talking about its equal and opposite: pain. Where love can only find its existence described in music, so to does pain lack a verbal medium. Dare I say pain so violently opposes being described that it destroys it, even?
For so many things we feel, we do so for a reason. Love for another, hunger for a craved meal, sadness for a loss of life, but pain is for nothing. One does not feel pain for any discernable reason other than pain itself. Pain, in such a pure form, does not give in to the trap of letting one contemplate it. Pain wipes your mind of all you have been taught, makes everything that you have learned utterly redundant. There is nothing to be learned or understood from pain. Reason ceases to exist before your very eyes. All you are is all that is and all of it hurts.
You can tell, my fellow sufferer, my precious flower, as when pain graces your mind all the language you've spoken your entire life disappears, reverting you to a primal being you are deep down, uttering noises of a primeval time instead of words of a modern epoch.
We act out of instinct in pain, and our names and knowledge become meaningless because pain is meaningless. It is therefore that all should experience pain, not to understand it, but instead to affirm its inexplicable reality.
Why, you must certainly ask, the egocentric of you, the appropriately curious? Why must we witness a meaningless thing?
To which I must reply, to witness the destruction of language, of reason, of code, of law, of all one holds dear, to be laid bare.
Pain is elusive, primordial; pain that is articulated then becomes useful, it has found meaning. Pain articulated is then contained, understandable, and observable, yet still entirely unique to its host. You are, therefore, a maker of meaning, my dear friend, and so you must suffer.
Wishing well in the worst of ways,
~Evad
Of course, my compatriot, my enemy, we cannot talk about love without talking about its equal and opposite: pain. Where love can only find its existence described in music, so to does pain lack a verbal medium. Dare I say pain so violently opposes being described that it destroys it, even?
For so many things we feel, we do so for a reason. Love for another, hunger for a craved meal, sadness for a loss of life, but pain is for nothing. One does not feel pain for any discernable reason other than pain itself. Pain, in such a pure form, does not give in to the trap of letting one contemplate it. Pain wipes your mind of all you have been taught, makes everything that you have learned utterly redundant. There is nothing to be learned or understood from pain. Reason ceases to exist before your very eyes. All you are is all that is and all of it hurts.
You can tell, my fellow sufferer, my precious flower, as when pain graces your mind all the language you've spoken your entire life disappears, reverting you to a primal being you are deep down, uttering noises of a primeval time instead of words of a modern epoch.
We act out of instinct in pain, and our names and knowledge become meaningless because pain is meaningless. It is therefore that all should experience pain, not to understand it, but instead to affirm its inexplicable reality.
Why, you must certainly ask, the egocentric of you, the appropriately curious? Why must we witness a meaningless thing?
To which I must reply, to witness the destruction of language, of reason, of code, of law, of all one holds dear, to be laid bare.
Pain is elusive, primordial; pain that is articulated then becomes useful, it has found meaning. Pain articulated is then contained, understandable, and observable, yet still entirely unique to its host. You are, therefore, a maker of meaning, my dear friend, and so you must suffer.
Wishing well in the worst of ways,
~Evad
