We’re laughing … at ourselves laughing … at ourselves laughing. Our laughter is becoming abyssal in the night.
We’ve swallowed the abyss of the night …
We’re laughing at the fact of laughter, that anyone laughs, that anyone has ever laughed.
Our comical apocalypse. What’s shown as we laugh all the way to the last night? What shows itself?
Moths batter themselves against the window. And we find it funny, that battering. We laugh as we batter ourselves. For wanting to batter ourselves.
Our laughing self-torture.
We laugh at our humiliation mechanisms. At our self-degradation machine. We laugh at our auto-ridicule. At our spontaneous foolishness.
A cosmic laugher.
The universe, in us, finds itself amusing. The universe understands that it’s told itself a joke. That the creation itself was a joke.
On what? On who?
On the created, of course. On us – all of us.
Laughter, instead of the silence of the universe. Laughter, at the silence of the universe. At the great silence. At the great indifference. Laughter, rising.
Laughing at our manacles. Laughing at our muzzles.
Work in Progress 