destructivism: a habitation
wider, grander, piercing a new sky
when the plenum, the epistemes orienting the false and the true, on whose carpet man surges for the stars, the vehicle that resists the forces that seek to bury him in the sands of time — when they all relinquish their elemental stability, when they are fractured, without any apparent signs of possible reparative activity, then it is destruction that becomes the sine qua non of existence itself. the wielder of this new destructivist impulse is a subject out of time, rejected from his ancestral sanctum, from not merely a directional signal, but rather an ontological man-making orientation, then he is left with one objective: survival. yet, he realizes that he must become a parasite —however, he discovers no welcoming host willing to host his scarred self; he is then attracted, nay compelled, towards certain symbolic signifiers of prosperity, but he remains unable to fully grasp them as real even as he cradles the jewels of existence in the palms of his hands; his very formation alienates him from home/away — a fracture. but because the man has a mind that operates beyond the facade of paper, he is to consult the physician, to obtain a prescription that mends the cracks running across him; he hopes that life may yet be something more, totus; in his heart, the physician may be able to treat his malady, his hunger, his ability to feed himself from the well of his host, one which has become inaccessible because its blood is venom-soaked, emitting a mephitic haze that blurs the parasite’s ability to move forward in existence. so, he arrives at the office of the physician, and then within mere seconds he begins to realize that he is more a physician than the healer, but by then it is too late — a struggle ensues; the doctor screams for his aides to fetter the patient, putting him in a straitjacket, injecting him with elixirs, reassuring the parasite that these would do well to auxiliate his telos: to find a home. the patient screams, he knows, even in his wretched heart, that he finds himself not at the physician, but at the butcher — he is the chicken, bred to be sacrificed by the engine of paper and arrogance; after he is tranquilized, the surgery is performed, without anesthetic, throughout which the parasite had howled like a dying dog. as the physician puffs his chest, dragging on the hookah of hubris, the patient observes what has been enacted upon him, his being now site of a violence, emitting a violent energy potent enough to invoke tremors in the very substratum of Earth; after his decimation at the hand of the pretenders, he has become a different entity altogether, with a new blood running through his veins; rather than imitating the civilizational hero of hope, passion, and love, his very first act is to stab the doctor’s heart as an archetypal response to what he perceives as a breach of the fundamental trust that binds the unity of existence; yet, the blade passes through the doctor’s flesh without so much as leaving a gash. he is ashamed at his impotence, but he hears a voice of interdiction. in spite of his failure, the wounded parasite has now transmuted into a parasitoid, his world-making capacities furling and unfurling at a whim; the fracture is subsumed into a fresh coat of black. yet, he still preserves his sense of perception, it could not be undone as it was on a place immune to betrayal, and even in the throes of his wreaking, a destruction upon all that is alive and breathing, he still sees: a dandelion! — a single stem reaching to the sky, only a few fingers tall, but yellow, dazzling — the parasitoid first wishes to cut it off from the base for it stands in sharp contrast to the grayed lens of his eyes, and yet, when he attempts as such, the dandelion pricks him; he had not seen any thorns and hence is befuddled — another betrayal? the yellow is translocated into the bulging veins of the man; a dialysis, a transfusion occurring. again against his will, but suddenly, he is no longer ravenous of the world, he dispenses with the dagger by which he had slashed at his oppressors; the metamorphosis begins, and the man is crushed into childness, his stature becomes diminutive, his bones break further, the cleavage deeps, but his cognition becomes wider, grander, piercing a new sky — the grays displaced by first lurid blue, but then by a calmer orange. this! this! the roof! the walls! fall, crash! his vision now extends beyond any end, the corners of his eyes stretch across his entire head, he sees past the bars he was born into and killed into, yet there is now an overwhelming dizziness of this new birth into a world that is old. the destructivist impulse starts to seep out the veins, through the skin, oozing into the Earth: it is history, percolating through the very soul of all existence, history abandons him, telling him that he is bitten by something that has commensuration with the passing of time: a vacuum now takes hold in the man in being — a denial of historical time is in place, and the chrysalis gathers momentum to burst into flight. the break! as he reaches escape velocity, bouts of a world breaking madness seize the body-soul complex, an epileptic rite of passage, and only then perception breaks, at the correct mathematics: gray again, but a real gray, a palpable, veridical bleakness — a desolatus of the highest order, an explosion of red sulphur in his hands, burnt and made matter, with every ember the illusion grows and recedes, a hallucinatory liberation — he is the wielder of both hope and despair, in his right and left hand, ramming them together with a pure puissance; he is vertical and horizontal, and then bleeding into all dimensions that the graph of space offers. now a shard, bones and muscle cut into an arrowed spike, he takes flight, propositions and structure melting in awe at his grace, petrified at the sight of his blood issuing from his pinions, drops suspended in perpetuity as he conjures distance between being and his fractures. the man rises, laughs at Icarus, telling him: come friend, I am the general, the very one, whose army shall fight the healers, the menders. what do they say of your flight now? do they not blame you for your folly? come, my friend, you have no need for these wings, I shall teach you fly and escape, break and unbreak, all without this body that they butchered.
Colonialism? Or?