INSECT

INSECT.

         Considering I have nothing better to do and my idle hands seek occupation, I shall share with you, dear reader, a terrible story of how I became an insect. It happened not too long ago, perhaps a couple years or so, yet it remains painfully vivid in recollection. It's easy to remember things from that long ago when I decide to do so, I have nothing recent to think about, not even a thought, and lastly I'm bored, so why shouldn't I write? I always bored now and even painful memories bring something to the table. I must admit I have no ambition, if anything I'll get sudden and brief hemorrhages of inspiration, and so I'll spare you the extensiveness of my despicable life rather beginning with the day I finally understood it. Quiet was that night, as if in the eye of a storm. This entire recollection is nothing other than a self-laceration, I must admit, but I like torturing myself these days so let us leave it at that. Alas! unto the fruit of my vanity.

I

         I awoke in bed disheveled at dawn, robbed of that fine morning relaxation granted to those waking upon their own accord. Naturally this will put one in a bad way and considering it being the first experience of the day this feeling was bound to linger throughout the hours, stretching ever so slowly, growing thinner and thinner and thinner...
         As always, I couldn't remember my dreams. I knew they were existent, I had the sensation of just having been through the experience, but anything about the dream, any imagery or memory, seem all but incomprehensible. For about ten minutes I struggle with this overwhelming indication that the memory is right there, hidden somewhere in the darkness, and all I have to do is grope around for it like a blind man until I can feel it, begin to identify, and then know of it entirely. I'll only get wisps and murmurs of it, fleeting recollections and single, insignificant details; however, it seems that despite how much I sense the presence of my dreams I haven't been able to recall one in months. As soon as the morning is over, when the sun has risen and the day has begun, all these details and puzzle pieces dissipate into nothing, overchoiced by the realities of everyday life. Often, when I think of such things, especially in the mornings, I get very depressed and brood upon my own gradual self-degradation-- as if only healthy-minded people dream! Well it's true, I dare say, and when you find yourself absent of those immaculate dream vistas it's a clear sign that your mind is disturbed, it's running in cycles, but you just can't seem to grasp it entirely, with conviction, because you're far too deep in the tar-pit to see the sunlight and you know you couldn't even attempt crawling out alone! Thus is my firmest conviction to this day, perhaps the only one which has lasted without any mutation, and yet thinking about it then felt ever so spontaneous in its effect, as if I struck a beautiful cord though I was deaf.
         Coming into awareness of my surroundings I naturally peer into the daylight through my bedside window and highlighted directly before my eyes a tiny line of ants march along my window seal as the fresh morning rays shimmer golden, and I lay there for a long time staring at these insects. They mystify me with such smooth and calculated movements, so precise and without flaw, without falter-- to think they were real, living things baffles my freshly woken mind, oddly putting me in an unsettled state, I believe, from the sensation of reflecting my humanity within these insects, and vise verse. These are dangerous thoughts to be thinking this early, although logically I know they will pass. Usually upon waking up these days, though only for a moment, I'll be entirely sensitive and emotional, obscured within unpredictable thoughts and liable to be affected by anything I might see or hear, yet this is a turbulent state of mind, I know very well, and if left uncontrolled things could get quite out of hand. This is where I use logic as if it were some anti-virus program, rationally invalidating these emotions from becoming significant enough as to interfere with daily life. In this despicable habit I've made of repressing these troublesome feelings as soon as they surface I can become quite docile for awhile, or at least appear to be for the sake of that dreadful organization in which I am chained to, but more of that later. My blankness was faltering in the form of wonder.
         This rationality of mine tries to dismiss these insects entirely and demands me to stand up, as logic knows these thoughts and sensations I am getting from such an insignificant sight are pointless and only causing turmoil, but to my surprise I find myself helpless in resisting submission to the hypnotic spell of their movements, the immaculate, consistent nature of their essence and soon enough I find myself in utter despair at the realization that I am in-fact human, not insect, and never will I be an insect, never will I have such calculated movements and such a precise, calculated mind. Forever will I be Man, clumsy and illogical, riddled with contradictions and sorrow and confusion and hate, unidentifiable with himself as he exists in such an distance from himself, separated it would seem from what he is physically, that being a human with heart and soul, as opposed to the bewildering essence of what I could only title the mind, father of all this logic and madness, working together solely through thin strands of fragmented connectivity teetering on the breaking point. The insect, existing as I exist in general terms, is one with itself and its reality; that ant marching with all the others is not but one insect, but rather an ant amongst the hive, knowing only what it is meant to know... Feeling uneasy, I finally look away and access my responsibilities, letting this estrangement sink in as I do so.
         There is a force inside of me which fights all logic, all reason and realism, simply in order to stay in bed. I know I have to get up, bath, cloth myself, and get out to my bus all within the span of forty-five minutes, but despite this knowledge I struggle with myself desperately to remain within this warm, nourishing womb of mine where I can blissfully drift in and out of those dream realms in all-comforting euphoria. The idea of waking up and beginning the day, at first, always fills me with the worst dismay imaginable, as if everywhere outside my bed consisted of thorns and cactus riddled with poisonous snakes slithering between legions of rapid, plague-carrying tics and I was expected, essentially demanded, to walk over them. This terror, however, is intently suppressed by that thing in my brain called logic, which constantly reminds me, in a mechanical voice, that I have to get out of bed, that I have to wake up and get prepared for the day, or else I shall become a failure in modern society. Inevitably the logic overcomes that passionate instinct to remain sleeping and I rise from bed light-headed, watching my room spin around me. I breath deep as torrents of negativity sting my nerves, then leaning against the wall due to lose of balance and fear until I eventually, through continual self-assurance, gain the courage to actually do it and leave this dark, cavernous cube in which I marinate. Existing was proving to be incredibly torturous this morning, and I knew but one solution to a moment's peace...
         My mind is void of true thought as I shamble towards the shower, the only salvation in my head being the warm sensation of steam and hot water covering my naked corpse. Stepping into the bathroom, I'm instantly surprise-attacked by the image of myself in the mirror as it ignites some sort of piercing emotion within me and I actually recognize my face, which is rare these days. It seems that as I stare into my reflection I perceive this great, vast emptiness-- a hollow desperation-- a suffering shell of a child silently begging for help that he knows will never come. My eyes glare back into themselves with hatred, an intense, strange disgust, and there is a deep purple color to the sunken bags underneath which, in combination with those black-holes, seem to dig through my thick wall of repression with such pain, such suffering, such incredible hopelessness and horror that I am forced to turn away for a moment; although instantly thereafter, my skin burning with obscure shame, I am impelled by this mad passion to resume the confrontation and face my opponent.
         I have a decent-looking face with an unkempt head of loose, somewhat long dark-brown hair and beige, almost gray skin, although I think that's just an impression from the light. I might consider it an attractive face, however there appears to be a very disturbing angle to it seen when facing a number of directions that is servile, loathsome and terrible, an exhausted, hollowed corpse with vacant eyes-- upon studying further, I realize that my skin is indeed quite pale, and it's almost as if it were somehow decaying, blistering and stretching to the bone. Despite my horror I remain utterly expressionless, and while I am familiar with continually appearing melancholy I notice a distinct urgency in my face, as if I were frightened by something yet I couldn't discern what. Nevertheless, I suddenly became very interested at this irregular show of emotion, then attempting to make a number of expressions towards myself, testing the limits of my face's personality, but regardless of any smile or cringe every expression retains this internal look of suffering, of blank sadness and emptiness, blending with one another into a single solemn face ever lacking that vibrant spark of true passion, of real emotion, of genuine thought and ideas-- only the eyes, my eyes, seemed to hold any essence of feeling or substance, being it one of hate and desperation. Some inner burn runs up my spine and suddenly I can't even withstand my own glare after a few minutes of this estrangement and, feeling vexed by the mirror, I turn away towards the shower. Again the yearning for existence as an insect or something just as mindless infected me. I desired to cease this ridiculous human life and all its insanity, and yet the only realistic solution I knew of, that we all know very well of, always proved to be impossible when it came down to the action itself. I felt very empty at that moment, and particularly useless, at the pit of emptiness with only the understanding of that emptiness itself to occupy me. Things were not boding well today.
         I've found that in this lifestyle a thing such as a shower can prove to be the greatest escape from that lingering, dreadful feeling of nothing. It's one of the only places I can manage to smile in earnest, happily, without that sick, twisted hysteria behind it laughing maliciously at my suffering. The running water drones all that out, muffling it and pushing it far away, replacing those dreadful concepts of time and responsibility with that barley recognizable childhood joy lurking deep within me as a hermit, fulfilling that emptiness for the time being. The experience of simply standing below a constant stream of hot water pounding upon your back and swiftly gliding down to the soles of your feet, caressing the skin and guaranteed to continue going steadily at the same temperature, the same consistency, unless you wish otherwise-- it brings a sense of control, of simplicity and power and comfort, of solitude and relaxation all to encompass my mind as I stand motionless underneath the eternal baptism... Yes, there are times I feel it is only for these simple moments that I haven't hung myself already.
         A stern, muffled voice shouts above the drone of falling water, shattering my bliss, informing me that I'm taking too long, that I'll be late, that I shall miss the bus and so on and so forth. I try my hardest to drown out such horrible noise by focusing on the warming sensations felt across my body, by putting my head directly under the stream and letting the water create a flowing shield around my skull, but it is all in vain as the voice yells and bangs on the door, and of course as the logic in my brain tires to dismiss this euphoria the best it can. I shake with hatred, empty hatred, hatred that never leaves my mind and is nothing but unspoken, introspective thought somehow unable to ever manifest itself in action; I always think, “perhaps today I shall let go, perhaps today I'll finally say 'fuck all this'!” but it's always in that form of an idea, of something to ponder upon, and once I've pondered upon it for so long the hatred has died and, therefore, so has the will. With clinging fists, I submit.
         I turn off the water and watch that contentment dissipate into steam, returning to the despicable sensation of lethargy which grips me day after day. I hesitate in looking at the mirror again, but as I do I see how my face has been distorted by the fog now, making me not but an unrecognizable blur of beige color. A strange feeling of nostalgia strikes me rather than the desperation from before, as if I were staring at the face of myself in another form, but this form feels too familiar, too known, and when I think back at my face in the mirror when I first entered, when the mirror was clear, I realize how frightened and emotional, yet how alive I felt then, and how weary, how mechanical and lifeless I feel at this moment, solemnly knowing, from a distance it seems, that I'll continue feeling like this all day. I fancy those moments before the shower, and during, are the only moments of humanity that remain in my life, everything else becoming blurred from the condensation. No longer do I even care if I'm human or not, all I am at this point is a student, and nothing more. These thoughts begin to all run through the back of my mind now, but I disregard them as they come simply because I really don't have the time, I must catch the bus after all...
*
         I go to school along with countless others born into this endless sea of suburbia, each and every one of us expected, practically demanded, to become something in this economic board game, to succeed and have degrees proving thus. And so we are placed in schools to have this idea instilled into our brains like a brand on cattle. Nobody really likes it, we all complain and wonder at the logic behind it all, but it is inevitable that, beyond anything else, we must attend school if we are ever to be happy in life. For school shall lead to college, and college shall lead to a career, and a career shall lead to family and money and eventually, when I'm old and weak, I shall finally be able to do whatever without concern. These are the types of things my father tells me --dear dear conventional father-- and when I tell him that sometimes I wish I never even went to school, or college, or even to a career and truthfully I'd rather live as a poor man or an aesthetic, living simply off of necessity, he looks at me as if I were being ridiculous and wonders what in the hell put such an idea in my head. This is the ideology we are living in, this is our expected reality and I, against most logic, detest it. I attend of course, but never do I assume significance. This you must understand: I see it as a twisted cesspool of old manipulative types and their unthinking employees, beneath it all where lies the student, anxious and worried, in utter fear of the future, reeking of suppression; I am that student, and despite any understanding regarding this fate I simply lack the will to put a stop to it, thus all I can do is watch in silent, spiteful desperation as I sink deeper and deeper into the tar of society.
         To combat this omnipresent horror most of us resort to putting on a mask, to submitting yourself willfully into calculated, mindless function without any sense of defiant thought as reality proves to be too concerning to think about when you have to keep up with the curriculum, regardless of anything it simply becomes a burden too heavy to heave everywhere. It's a fairly easy thing to do, not thinking that is, especially when forced into such a situation as ours, and I, like most others, have perfected the art of thoughtlessness. For days on end I shall remain within that fog knowing only what assignment lies in front of me or what lecture is being taught, and without the presence of myself I shall listen, learn, and adapt to the curriculum. There is a sickness of thought, however, which manages to pierce into my sphere every once and awhile, corrupting everything with no remorse and leaving me disfigured in its wake. As I lay in bed at night my mind will tangle itself ruthlessly with all the thoughts repressed during the day, and upon the morrow said hysteria will always vigorously attempt to pierce the surface despite the mental shackles chaining it to the dark seabed of my mind, resulting in an inner conflict I feel, for some reason, must remain ever-hidden within myself. It is only with this corruption that I see everybody as ants working without falter, without doubt or hesitation, marching along my window seal as I watch in dull horror, terrified to look down at myself in fear that instead of my fleshy corpse I shall see the smooth, shiny red exoskeleton of an insect crawling along my window seal with an identical insect leading my way, and another following suit. In this corruption I tell myself, 'I am human, not insect!', yet as soon as it passes I return to my mask, I return to the process of thoughtlessness, I return to the window seal.
         Gradually I am letting the metamorphosis occur, and soon enough I'm sure it will become permanent as it is with my father, yet here I am going to school every day abiding the best I can to their expectations and wasting away on weekends, trapped within this mad cycle with no gaps in the circle. To stop this madness all I need is the courage to make a radical change, but day after day I put on the mask required for such a lifestyle, yes indeed, I wear it with shame for it has made me so very distant from myself, my true self, as if half the time I'm not even conscious or I'm in a half-conscious state. Days pass like water, repeating and blending with each other endlessly to make a conveyor-belt of my mind, a fast-flowing stream of consciousness which leaves no room for those vital emotions, the ability to feel and the impulse to make a change, reducing them to mere fleeting wisps of what they could be-- I know all this and yet I can't seem to do anything about it, the mask I've put on is slowly consuming my face, becoming my face, and soon enough there is no I, but simply the mask.
          I know I'm sane, I can remember everything so well and present it clearly, as shown here, there just seems to be an obscure cloud above my head dampening everything for me. I can't really say much more. I used to think better, I used to be more coherent and emotional, I used to be a human being, not a mannequin. These thoughts dissipate amongst my weary brain as the bus nears my prison, and thus comes a thick cloud, a mechanical mindset.
*
         Hours upon hours pass and suddenly I find myself sitting idly in class staring at absolutely nothing at all and, I'm sure of it, wearing the face of utter blankness. I stir and come to with a slight spasm, but instantly, being in the habit of it, I swiftly retreat back into the vacant, observing mask in which I seem to peer through on the day-to-day, these days; however thought, that consuming corruption, lingers in my head. Analyzing everything of my surroundings, as if I haven’t been doing that at all, I find there is some noise going on incessantly, probably the teacher, but at this point, to my senses, it all is certainly coming out as incomprehensible gibberish. I'm silently confused at this, horribly actually, though no one could ever tell by my face; I'm entirely melancholy out here, dull and possessed with some great, inhuman neutrality on the outside, and, for the most part until this moment, on the inside as well. It seemed that I was coming to reality, but a certain part of me feels like I was dreaming, like I am dreaming, and the fact that I can't understand any speech whatsoever strengthens this assumption. I try and think back for a moment as to determine whether I'm dreaming or not. To my horror, as I ponder, it feels like this is the first time I've really given thought to anything today, anything at all, since the blurred image of myself I saw, that I felt, within that mirror this morning... that vexing mirror!
         I start to get very flushed and tremble all over, concerned with a strange paranoia of something entirely present and obvious even, some terrible understanding right in front of my face, but somehow I can't put it into a coherent thought. This troubles me even more, to a great extent, and I start to feel that I'm no longer keeping myself under control, that I might be showing this insensible madness to everybody around me through my frantic, absurd behaviors. 'Stop it', I tell myself over and over, 'I might be attracting attention, somebody might be watching', and all the sudden I begin shivering at the mere thought of... what? Of what am I even shaking over? Something was wrong, and I couldn't for the life of me identify it, perhaps I just didn't want to identify it.
         I quickly get very confused at the confusion itself and lower my head, as to hide whatever expression may betray me here. I fantasize of a dark, silent room with a single bass string being plucked over and over, putting my prone body into some astral trance, and for a second I began to drown everything out, leaving my motionless vessel in solitude, but that sickening gibberish, which has been spewing endlessly, seemed to be growing louder. The droll, elongated phrasing of this one older man speaking ever so steadily brings me the sensation of sawing bone, of flaying skin and watching my face burn; reserved, I attempt to be, though these feelings conjure such hatred, such passion and malice out of nowhere, as if he were literally stabbing violently into my ears with his sharp, incoherent noises. Why must he go on? Does he know what torture this is? What sick spell he is casting? I cling to the desk in desperation and muffle my ears, but it pierces through. It all seems so hopeless now, like I couldn't even stand this for another minute-- how I wished for some ledge right then, an abyss to dive into before anybody could do anything about it!
         And then, burning, as it felt, throughout my skin, a great shiver runs up my spine and I suspect, through some obscure sense, that I am being stared at by dozens of curious eyes. Slowly I raise from my retreat to know for sure and see only a well-dressed, bulgy man of considerable age with his head beat red and protruding sickeningly from this spherical mass, layers of excess skin flapping about his face as he babbles, waddling directly towards me. The idea that I was being addressed flabbergasted me, it was absurd and unreal to a point of near-disbelief, and for a moment I truly doubted its reality. Yet this grotesque caricature then stood before your Humble Narrator, babbling in tongues and glaring at me dumbly, as if actually looking at the wall behind my desk, continually raising his horrible voice louder and louder, noise after noise-- none of it could I understand, not one syllable! This guttural hell-speak, this terrible dialect of madness, whatever the fuck it was-- it needed to stop, I couldn't endure another second!
         I abruptly jump out of my desk upon uncontrollable impulse, pushing it aside with a rapid, vicious movement without really knowing what I was doing. I stand face-to-face with the teacher staring directly into those beady little eyes, deathly silent as he stares back speechless and startled, estranged by the unexpected behavior and, I'm sure of it, by my eyes as well for in that moment I glared at this man with overwhelming hatred, horrible cringing hatred, that hatred which stomps around within my head searching vehemently for some way of escape and to manifest itself into the action of smashing this bastard's teeth in. The moment drags on, and suddenly I feel, with the utmost conviction this time, the eyes of all those around me, my fellow classmates and peers, all transfixed entirely on me! As the logic strikes once more everything going on right now clicks with me and I realize how absurd and ridiculous I'm acting. It all begins to feel so very unreal, like some twisted dream, and in horrible confusion I lower my head mumbling something or another, and walk out of the classroom staring at the floor.
         I'm caught up in conflicting thoughts and overflowing embarrassment not only at what had just happened, but also at the fact that I am actually feeling embarrassed at what had just happened. None of it makes sense, it was so insignificant really, and yet I'm becoming more and more devastated by the second. I walk down the halls gesturing absurdly to myself and mumbling as if in fever; all my inner demons, all my repressed anxieties and terrors, were flooding into me at that point and I, like some idiot, had forgotten how to stay afloat. I felt as if these feelings have been teetering on the edge of my consciousness all day, for days on end, and somehow only now, today, did they finally begin to topple over. I was shown a glimpse of what this would be earlier, looking at the mirror, and back then I still saw the possibility of anything happening unbelievable, inconceivable, against all this concrete logic instilled within me, but it seemed that all had crumbled now-- my mask, stitched together so poorly, finally lies torn to pieces at my feet... and what could I do about it?
         Let me tell of a bitter memory I once beheld. For quite some time when these bursts of feeling would consume me at school I'd always retreat to where I knew I'd be alone. There was this shady nook in the woods behind school placed at the base of this tall, ancient oak tree slanted over itself from age, creating an umbrella which stood, or rather hung, some ways away from the view of anything, surrounded only by a thousand blades of dancing grass, magnificent purple flowers, and the melodic sounds of the wind and forest. A silent sanctuary underneath the leaves. Despite the beauty, that inexplicable beauty, I originally found it long ago in a state of impending suicide, as it seemed to be at the time, and upon coming across this glorious tree in the midst of my hysteric retreats from school the first and only thought I had, that I could have, was to hang myself off one of those branches as soon as possible, before I loose the will. It was one of my highest points of desperation, brought on by torrents of thought, and having given up all hope I had no wish to exist any longer, void of any tolerable future or purpose to continue breathing-- kneeling before Society and all her vices, I bared my neck to the noose... alas! to my eternal despair I had no rope... And so, laughing madly to myself at this ridiculously comic situation as I often did back then in those times of psychosis, I submitted to just sitting down and letting this consuming wave of anguish which I had been trying so unsuccessfully to fend off engulf me entirely-- submitting to my psychological crucifixion, as I saw it.
         After I sat there for what was an eternity to me, caught up in assessing all my mind's madness to no avail and only digging myself deeper and deeper into it, I caught this high-pitched whir, like the ambiance of a small machine, piercing my ears and before I knew it I felt nothing other than curiosity behind this noise. No more than ten seconds passed and it abruptly ceased, strangely leaving me dumb-stricken, rather blank and thoughtless with a pinch of what seemed to be urgency. Echoes of my madness floated about fearfully and I hesitated in accessing anything. Everything of my internal monologue came to an odd, perplexing standstill and not knowing what else to do I finally took a moment to look around, as if stricken with the intention to do exactly that; I began to smell the air and feel the soft touch of gentle winds, watch the grass and flowers dance before me as leaves peacefully floated to the ground, and very soon I discovered the simplicity of this unseen, beautiful spot, existing there as I did flowing perfectly with everything else, actually worth living for and enjoying genuinely rather than hanging myself off one of the branches as I had first intended to do. There had to of been some special gust of wind, I told myself dreamily, a certain way the grass danced  that so quickly relieved me of this incredible burden which had been weighing me down, sucking my blood and stealing my spirit. It all vanished, and the idea of it began to just seem absurd from that point on in respect to the beauty I was witnessing, and the beauty of myself witnessing it. And by the will of Something I was cured, O my brothers.
         Although, to be clear, that's not to say I was out of the tar-pit entirely. I've always had this sickness brooding like a medicated disease in the back of my mind, however I had, through fate it seemed, gained the ability to bear it all without killing myself, or somebody else as I often imagined. I never really relived the beauty from that moment, but I suppose that one moment was enough to settle and subdue my hysteria from having terrible effect, as it nearly did prior. I understood then that I'd have to retain this subtle contentment or else I lose control. I began faltering as time went on, and since that enigmatic moment I've always, as a fail-safe, returned to the shady nook in these dark moments of such uncertainty, relying on its mere significance to that understanding, which saved me once, to help me in my present strife. The isolation of it, the beauty and the nostalgia were usually enough to calm me into a state of submissiveness, convincing myself over and over that things would change, that everything was fine for the time being and I simply must be patient to get through this strange, absurd initiation into life and society before anything can actually happen.
         However today, upon fleeing from school into the woods in hopes of relief, as I sat motionless in the ancient oak's shadow contemplating it all, that submissiveness was nowhere to be found, as if faceless in the midst of a thousand mannequins. I couldn't seem to convince myself of the understanding anymore, it seemed so ridiculous, like nonsense or fiction, and only then was I realizing that I've been living a lie this whole time. Once I'm done here, having passed the initiation, I would only find myself stuck within another cycle, doing the same things, working the grind, walking the cow, with no end in sight and only hopes of salvation in mind, caught within the same madness as I always am and never escaping the maze, rather wasting my time, wasting my life awaiting change as I admire the patterns on the wall severing me from harmony-- that towering wall, ever so menacing, with no way to cross over! I would eventually die a insignificant death staring at that wall, mourned by those close to me for awhile, and then be forgotten within the endless achieves of the past-- your Poor Suffering Narrator within a memory, a mirage, a figment of a person amongst millions of others without a soul. With unendurable anguish I began clawing at my face, terrified at the oncoming consequences of my restless thoughts.
         Was this not what I felt when I first arrived here, at this spot, with intentions to hang myself? I knew it for certain then. I was convinced of my slow, agonizing peril in relation to this world; I knew of the stretching nullification of my spirit at the time; I foresaw my pitiful, insignificant future and thought, 'shouldn't I just end it now?' In retrospect, I really should of done it then. Instead, like a coward, I took it all in stride and, looking at the flowers and feeling the cool breeze sooth my weary skin, I decided that all of that is just negativity, pure youthful angst, and I would get over it, like anything else in this world, and be happy or something of the sort. I simply couldn't believe its ever-lingering presence, or rather I was afraid to believe, and so I fled, like a coward, into the unthinking corners of my turbulent mind. Did I do it on purpose? Was I aware of the lies I made to myself? All this racing through my thoughts I looked to the flowers and the trees in desperation, clinging to the feeble hope that nature could perhaps save me once more from this consuming abyss of madness, yet as the hatred of my hypocrisy only intensified I quickly realized how during today's foreboding delirium it was quite concrete, that horrible realization of nothingness, entirely impenetrable, and I understood then how my current disfigurement, the destruction of my petty mask and this stretching decay of the mind, was result of slamming my face into that concrete again and again screaming helplessly inward, unable to do anything but mutilate my face as everybody watched. When I finally pulled my face away I saw for the first time through broken and bleeding eyes that beauty, once my salvation, had all along only been a mural on the wall that I, as an idiot, believed to be real.
         There's no saying what I could of done at that moment when I fully realized the doom associated with my diseased mind. I was at a point of intense desperation and saw two options for the moment: either I run far away from the wall into the woods and abandon everything, perhaps killing myself later if need be, or I return to school and bear through the rest of the day until I can lay down at home alone, in comfort, in peace and quiet where perhaps I shall find salvation in sleep, curled up within my rut and tightly pressed against the wall that stands parallel. It seemed so obvious what I should do, what my dictated sense of logic compelled me towards, for the rut is familiar and protected by the wall, yet still there remained that instinct, ever so passionate, to throw everything away for the unknown and finally sever myself from all these chains, abandon everything here and  re-create my life as I felt it should be, sustain and strive towards repelling those awful ideas and mindsets driven so deeply into my skull over years of countless days, and perhaps through pure experience reverse the horrid dejection, the insidious self-hatred felt from my meekness when it comes to any sense of sanity-- all this I could of done, if perhaps I were not a coward. If I could only find the will to listen to my instinct, to abide by the indications sent to me from that deep inner voice, perhaps then I could of avoided everything and created a man out of myself. O meekness, O rotting willpower!
         Being the worm I am I submitted to logic and, eyes downcast, I returned to school. Never will I forget that walk back to my torture. How much I hated myself with utter disgust and spite then, how venomously I wished for some tree to snap and crush me underneath its thick bark before I left these woods, bury me into the soil forever and return these misused cells to their rightful owner-- I saw no future, no hope, and, as I understood now, no way to escape. All there was to do was submit, with clinching fists, to my imprisonment and leave it be. I recall halting everything and gasp, breathless and taken by something. Such is life as it goes and there was no denying that, I suddenly concluded, so logically why hurt so much about it? This question, which had never before been taken seriously by my standards, then washed over me like a steaming stream as I stood freezing and naked. It was as if during my aimless exile into the merciless cold I had finally found salvation amidst the ice --the satisfaction of embracing the warmth of steaming water within an endless frost-- and though I secretly knew I couldn't logically stay underneath this stream for the remainder of my life, as that would be terribly illogical, still I fought myself in an absurd yearning to deny logic, or perhaps I only wanted to see if I had the will to defy the whims of reason, for despite how I had seen countless times the truth behind this seducing mirage as if through clean glass all I could to do was shamefully turn my head away. Defeated and tired, I had finally lost concern for truth of any kind. I just wanted to cease this horrible suffering regardless of anything even if somehow just for a minute, and even if I knew I was blatantly deceiving myself it didn't matter anymore, for right then I thought only of what cure could possibly exist to help divert or heal my mind of the reckless mutilation I've inflicted and continue to inflict with an aching self-laceration. Discovering this stream as I did in plain sight there came an irresistible urge to bask in the warmth of that stream if only during that minute, for silently I shall be hoping to forget within this precious minute why I exiled myself to the cold in the first place and possibly exist for that one glorious minute without this rotting sickness or even the knowledge of its symptoms continuously twisting at my mind, yet these hopes were fanciful and made up of my starving imagination. I couldn't forget as long as I was conscious, for the reasons behind my exile consisted of essentially all what could be understood about this life, in so far.
         I exiled myself in the name of truth, of course, yet after everything that had happened in its name, all my suffering and frigid madness, it came to me that to simply forget about all of it in all sincerity and at once give in to the powerlessness was far easier than my defiance; to deceive myself into believing in the mirage, to abandon truth and, with the art of self-deception, convince myself into allowing this metamorphosis I had been fearing for so long finally consume and let myself become another ant amongst the hive working diligently, listening to the queen without a thought in mind, marching in line with the rest as an ant should do and following the chosen path without considering, even for a minute, whether that path leads across the immaculate beauty of dancing flowers or the sunlit window seal of some poor fool willingly smashing his skull into hard concrete-- to become an ant, with its simple existence, knowing only two things: how to function, and how to follow, thus what it's exactly marching over doesn't even register, it remains as is without the corruption of thinking and, in turn, remains neutral in its totality-- replacing the suffering with nothing reveals relief, and all I had to do was surrender! With this secure and purposeful reality manifested before my very eyes in the form of an incredible, thriving ant-mound safely hidden away beneath the merciless cold; with myself,  an insect among the rest, ever welcome to the hive with open arms and quite insistingly, quite naturally expected to exist within the warmth and safety of thousands identical to myself, marching in line without a thought in mind, knowing only the instinctive satisfaction of serving a purpose, of nourishing an existence without truth or even want for truth, without need for meaning but with meaning all the same; with the incessant suffering of this bitter cold in comparison to such an inviting haven, I told myself, it's obviously and utterly absurd to prefer, instead of the hive, an empty, consuming, unforgiving cold in which one regretfully lives writhing and squirming atop the ice until he dies alone, inconsequential and aimless... am I correct?
         You see an ant holds purpose, however thoughtless, and at least that's something; an ant is never alone, thus he cannot suffer, and an ant is treated the same as any other ant, thus an ant will always be the same as any other ant-- simple logic, I must say, for even your most humble of creatures, and having taken so dreadfully long as I did to figure this out I must be amongst the true fools of this world. To think this whole time, during the furthest extent of my sufferings, I've been so obsessively concerned about the horror of my being human without ever realizing that the human is nothing but a canvas to be painted into anything, yet in this modern age of repression and manipulation we are all taught, perhaps by the demon-beast itself, to only paint the stupidest, most twisted, loathsome, self-destructive, and yet so artistically sadistic of all living things, coming off as if this sickening brute were the true form of our species and not the crude caricature I know him to be. It is Man I speak of, infamous as that particularly disgusting beast ever confused and conflicted with himself, searching desperately for a truth that doesn't exist and being horribly mutilated in the process from the rigged blades of his uncertainty and sin, flayed alive with the razors of his lies and heresy, broiled as he suffocates inside the caldron fired with this myriad of selfish and depraved deeds lustfully committed to never be atoned, tortured savagely for years on end at the black hands of utter hopelessness which comes as result of seeing the wickedness and slime he creates every second he exists and continues to create despite any type of self-control, until at long last, after so many countless days of seeking a mirage in this frigid desert which never ends and finally giving up all resistance, the beast, at this point disfigured and broken, is cruelly murdered in the cold by none other than its very own pride and joy, the precious essence of its ugly humanity that every time manages to unknowingly mold each and every blade of vice that ruthlessly slices the beast's own flesh: lo and behold, Man's most natural root and means to his end-- his boundless vanity!
         To be honest it's simply not logical, in my mind, to willingly let yourself become such a loathsome devil simply because you can't think of anything else to become. And yet, isn't that the cause behind my disfigurement and delusion? Of course it is, such an obvious thing, and yet only now do I come to fully realize the horror of having spent my whole life trying to make myself into something other than the despicable fiend I am when all I could ever hope to comprehend within this modern era of Man and Insect was Man or Insect, or whatever one can create in between, and that is the only truth I learned to trust. I am then left here after mutilating myself to consider if perhaps it is time to face my vanity, or, as I thought at the time, resort to my last option of suicide, yet even then I proved to be nothing but an actor, a childish lie and coward silently entertaining myself with the masochism of this decent into Man's typical fate because it at least made me feel something real and alive within my hollow corpse, even if it was suffering and suffering alone. Somewhere hidden inside this foolish, ridiculous tale of madness conjured up from the incurable boredom possessing me these days you will perhaps see how all my self-laceration lead to nothing in the end, absolutely nothing of the truth, the clarity, the freedom and justice I blindly groped for, and as I searched maddeningly throughout that merciless cold for so many years all that could be found in the end was absolutely nothing other than the frozen carcass of a Man strangely familiar, his limbs outstretched and his face convulsed in agony with these sad, vacant eyes staring wildly ahead, these deep blue eyes of suffering, of desperation, hatred and hopelessness that screamed and howled into one's very nerves.
          Alas! this grotesque corpse was none other than the sad hero of this tale, as we all could of guessed, frozen to death as result of his vanity and left as a relic of the tundra forever encased in the ice, only to be discovered as an omen by those rare seekers foolish enough to venture unknowingly out into the senseless cold looking for anything other than the dry, rolling winds and hollowed corpses. A pathetic ending to a pathetic tale deserving to be disregarded more than anything, and yet a curious detail I vaguely remember was how as our hero finally died, exhaling his very last breath into the gusts of frigid air, out of his gaping mouth there crawled a tiny insect vaguely reminiscent to his predecessor, as if the head and thorax adopted the shape of his face, and yet an ant he was now; without a thought in mind he marches-- with purpose! --back to the hive... I ceased to care, all it did was make me physically ill and I couldn't take the agony. This is what I had become after so much my weary soul had endured and to think what suffering, what inhuman agony born from nothing, born for nothing in the end other than the realization of a nightmare had become too much of a burden to bear, thus a surrender to that nightmare: I, your Weak Spineless Narrator, seed of his father and consequently a child of that ant-mound at the base of the wall-- an insect!