Protruding galoche-like escalators jut out from the perfumed madness surrounding me - their fluid yet mechanical constancy a cruel reminder that I am just another cog in the machine. Whilst there is a certain beauty in this, their recurrent metallic screeches ring shrilly in my ears, leaving a dissonant and somewhat painful itch to yank out my molars - an impulse perhaps prompted by a desire to introduce this metallic tinnitus to the rest of my senses so that it can be experienced fully. Ultimately, this is all in the hope that overwhelming my senses and flooding them with ultimate hatred, will somehow be cathartic; a Pavlovian bloodletting of sorts.
I can scarcely see straight as the scent almost becomes visible; the fumes making me uncomfortably aware of my surroundings, propelling how foreign and awkward I feel amongst them. My fury grows, hypocritically both at my loneliness whilst being surrounded by people. I hide it best behind banal formalities and empty greetings - the civility leaving a bitter taste in my mouth as I begin to feel a distinct sense of dissatisfaction which begins to ferment into disgust.
I start to wonder where the carnality of human condition has gone as I witness consumerism firsthand. People come and go, I answer unending questions about the moisturising qualities and various strengths of skincare, the healing properties of essential oils, the potency, depth and undertones of fragrances, directions to and from a myriad of locations; all from nameless individuals, who become victims of my internal wrath. They each suffer wickedly personalised scorns hurled at them in scenarios concocted entirely for my surviving delight. I soon begin to realise that carnality has not disappeared, no - it’s merely redressed itself, in dapper suits, gorgeous dresses, well-fitted jeans, and stunning Merlot sling-back heels. Any apparition is the very epitome of carnality but the hunger to remain strung on this mortal coil - as our ancient predecessors once were - now manifests itself in a kind of greed that can only be described as horrifying.
I remember though, through my false sense of superiority, that I am not immune to the capitalistic whims of rabidly purchasing. So, I make myself comfortable in this prison I have forged for myself, until its overly cushioned walls begin to suffocate me - and my hunger to claw out of this jail of my own decisions and mistakes, grows. I hold back insufferable tears. filled with the very essence of fury as I begin to wander around in a futile attempt to distract myself, and become victim to the very behaviours and mannerisms I scorn; my thoughts become wan, distracted, weak - all as my greed and contentment begin to satisfy and quieten this carnality. For what happened to the beastly desperation for survival moments ago? The sheer passion in terror traded for these fragranced nightmares of my own making - which I satiate and transform into bearable fragments of reality so that I do not look back with utter dismay. Am I merely fooling myself?
Well even so, the comfort in fooling oneself is fleeting. Every night as I close my eyes, a painstaking replay of my mistakes, nay grievances, of each day afflicts me with such great agony that I often beg to any number of deities in desperation to cure me of my ailments. My pleas are continually ignored. Perhaps that is because my ailments are not truly such, and instead what I see as insurmountable and painful problems, are merely just a more casual case of the melancholies. The other reason, I refuse to believe - for then the world as I see it would come crashing down, and that is not something I can afford at this point in time. Perhaps faith is blissful ignorance, but there is a distinction to be made between this and blind, foolish trust (or at least I’d like to believe). Awareness is the deciding factor - and that is precisely what makes this particular point of my existence so utterly insufferable. I am both the cockroach, and simultaneously its greedy family, terrified and horrified by its mere existence.
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