Tearing up things again.

Music: Agalloch: Ashes against the grain.

Song: Fire Above, Ice below.

"The woeful silence and wind's reflection/

Of your body's pale ode, an icy fortress of blood and ages/

Sky fire above, ice below the hearth/

Fall away from me to that citadel at the end of time/

Where death sleeps and dreams of your buried pain/

There has never been a silence like this before/

There will never be an ode like this again."

It has happened twice in the last three months. Been tearing up all those things I have been keeping as mementos. Old letters, letters and photos of boyfriends, terrible poetry I had written when I was ten or eleven, diary pieces complaining about boyfriends I never had, clipouts from magazines, copies of letters I had sent to people... I have been keeping those things believing they were in a way describing me and what I am. Problem being, I'm not that person anymore. I do not care about those people, don't communicate with those pen pals anymore and generally these are just old skins I have shed on my way to now. Like an idiot I have been holding onto skins while the original is here in flesh and blood. Who needs those things? Certainly not I. So I tore and tore and tore until I had a trolley full of past and then I went and emptied it into the recycle bin. I felt relief.

It's amazing how much papercrap one manages to accumulate in any given amount of time. For me, at least, it's papercrap. Other people with different inclinations collect other types of crap. Notice the keyword: crap. These things are just material objects. They are not us. Western civilisation has given to death the status of the absolute end, while it is nothing more than the transmutation of energy. So people collect things in order to keep death at bay, they hide under tons and mountains of bullshit. One day death comes and finds them and those left behind throw everything away, or suffocate under their crap, harbouring the illusion of those things being the person that is gone. We have promoted material objects to people. Congrats.

What is it about death that scares us so much? Probably the dissolving of ego, the loss of personality. Why? Ha. I wish most people HAD some personality, in order to be justifiably scared of losing it. I am being mean again, I know, but believe me, you have no idea what being mean is about and I'd rather leave it at that. I however promise that at a later entry I might decide to analyse what good and evil means for me. You don't have to agree, of course. You don't even have to read it, so...