no fear no hunger no melancholy no happiness
And for a creature such as I that has dwelled and developed around the consumption of hunger and hatred it is such a strange stance. Like swordsman preparing his rapier in a fancy position yet being in an empty void with nothing to be with.
I have lost the darkness and light, the love and the hate.
And in such state I realised I can’t devour anymore. I can’t eat the flesh and ecstasy of cardinal sins with two naked bodies. I killed a hooker, I desecrated her body, beheaded her and rested her limp body in the red carpet of the cheap motel room.
And looking at her from the upper position I just pose my hand on my chin as I examine the scene. I see that I don’t scream, I see that I don’t vomit, I see that I don’t have an erection, I see that I don’t get happy, and I see that I don’t get angry.
As if she passes in a flow of super quantum properties where every single atom reaches that exact position to pass and phase through each other. In resumed way; a nothingness.
I can’t be completely sure that static and stillness is the better bliss from drug dependency of melancholy and the abdomen pain with the knifes pushed and twisted from the tragedy of said lover boy.
But at least I can report it. Produce it. Analice it. And pinpoint it down to the (used to be) woman in floor.
But in truth. I’m not staring at her with my curious focused expression.
In truth. I’m looking at myself.