Disgust

We have to hate ourselves as natural, I say. Feeling revulsion of ourselves as part of nature: that’s all that can justify us.

Why can’t we accept we’re just being fooled … by our own bodies? I ask. That we’re liars? That we’ve been lying all our lives? That our lives are lies?

Biology’s fooled us, I say. We’re … gene-perpetuation making machines, that’s all. That’s what it’s all about. God … It’s humiliating. And we invented God and Meaning so we wouldn’t feel so humiliated …

We’re apes realising that they’re apes, I say. The disgusting discovering that we’re disgusting. That we’re fucked in the head. That we never had a chance. That we were always fooled. That we fooled ourselves. Our hormonal systems … our endocrinal systems … every bone in their bodies – and our bodies themselves. Every cell, craving … what? … to make more of itself …

Nature’s humiliated us, I say. Nature’s a joke – a cosmic joke. Something that went unchecked. That was allowed to be. To sprawl. To take over a planet. And then … become self-conscious enough to know its own disgustingness. To know itself as joke in us. To see it in the mirror – in us. As sheer, laughing futility – in us. As endless laughter at itself – in us.

It’s disgusted with itself – the entire universe, I say. It feels horror at itself – the deepest horror. Which is totally at one with our self-disgust. Our instinctive horror at everything.

We’re, like, the universe soiling itself – as it wants to soil itself, I say.

And it’s going faster, our decline, I say. It’s increasing. This acceleration into nowhere. It’s becoming more complex. We’re making more of a mess.

There’s no end to this experiment, I say. No limit. The experiment experiments. Blindly. For no purpose. Without reason. Just because … there’s nothing better to do, in a universe that just lies. That just mocks itself. For, like, an audience of NO ONE. For empty skies. For the absent fucking divinity. For the great NOTHING. The great FUCK ALL. The great GO FUCK YOURSELVES.

Mockery, echoing out into NOWHERE. In which we laugh at ourselves laughing at ourselves and so on …

And all we want is an end to this, I say. An end to … being fooled. Just some great full stop. The fucking apocalypse. Just to set a limit.

It needs to be rounded off, I say. It needs to be completed. A stop to the spasming. To the screaming and the laughing and the noise.

Silence – wouldn’t that be perfect? I ask. Responding to the silence that is the universe. Echoing the great silence, the great darkness. Echoing the NOTHING. Why does there have to be MORE? I ask. More mockery. More farce. I can’t believe the world’s still bothering to exist. It’s all past its self-by date. All of it. And everything. All of this. It’s missed the perfect moment to … end. I mean the way it all continues is just so … tasteless.