Born with the Dead

We don’t even want to kill ourselves. We don’t even … have that get out. We don’t have the sincerity to kill ourselves. We never quite mean anything.


We appal ourselves. Of course we do. We perturb ourselves.

How can we be? Something we constantly ponder. What allowed us? Our kind? What were the conditions? What went wrong with everything? Was it part of the plan? Was there really a sabotage plan, all along?


We are the things that should not be. Haven’t we always known that?

Some eruption. Some crack in being. Some aberration. Some spasm. Some shudder of the world. Some vast flinching. Of disgust. In disgust. At the very fact that we are. At the fact that the world gave birth to us.


This isn’t our … planet. This isn’t our scene. This isn’t our world. None of this means anything to us. It’s water off our ducks’ backs.

It has nothing to do with us, this reality. It’s not our fault.


We arrived late – very late. We arrived posthumously. Born with the dead. Born as the dead. Waking up, opening our eyes, into death.