The lack of narrative catharsis often feels ugly, It’s as if being ordered the very idea of languish in the stage of post-languishing… not understanding but suffering the very cause because of it. After a year I’ve started to believe that anything that provides an intellectual exercise for believing in it must be good art, that is solely to my belief and I would never force it on anyone but if someone were to come to me to debate that, I would verbally rape that person to an extent that my intellectual lack would come out as weak in a passage of running rage that is being functioned through the very opposite of it, power.
To form words is not a hard task, has never been. Nor the thinking part, that is easy. It’s the part where you have to look like a writer. To really feel like one is what is hard, to form it into Gen-Z Lingo one must feel the drip of it. In my head it is crystal clear of how writers look like, I would never believe that a person who looks like James Dean is a writer, and I would never believe that Godard was a writer if I had seen him on the streets. It’s the Quentins and the Rahat Saabs who are writers, it’s never the Bachchan who is a writer, and it’s always a Shatrughan who is. That is to be understood with the way the person looks purely on the basis of their looks, I’m not saying that Quentin and Rahat Saab look bad or that writers look bad, I’m just saying they look beautiful but disgusting. That is the hard hitting consequence of the post-modernistic culture that we live in and it does not stop there, it further goes on to levels of awareness and post awareness that makes this ‘Catch’ and this hypocrisy disgusting, because deep in my heart I know that this paragraph will end on a hypocritical note. Believing does not need facts, thus it does not need anything but only an individualistic rational view on the world… The irony we create has started to become disgusting, and I would never believe that a person looking like James Dean can’t be a writer, if a person looking like James Dean is a writer all I can do is either commit suicide, ha-ha…or deal with it.
Humans tend to shy away from the fact that death is random and it does not carry meaning…the very opposite of the life we create, meaningful.
The literary world is being raped right now with people who think they are making good love to it. They have consent but they’ve still fucked it up bad, not literally cause its rape and not simple love making. It’s hard to explain, it’s exactly shying away from death because Necrophilia in my eyes does not exist, and or rather it’s something that we collectively don’t acknowledge. We all know that we’re all hurling towards death and sentences that follow that statement but we still do not believe it. The literary world is being raped with not only good looking writers, but with people who use words as a medium of tomfuckery. You cannot converse in a way that people don’t understand, that not only makes you a fundamental fucker but something even meaner. If you tend to use words with no value to it, your literature is not important, the world does not really need your literature, and you are nothing but one huge piece of fuck. If you change your words within fractions of seconds without knowing what you want out of it, you’re the rapist and the subject being raped. We’re all hypocritical sometimes it’s impossible to shy away from it unlike death it’s a subject that must be acknowledged. Which brings me to a very important part of the essay and why it holds meaning, it is because of my effort to tell you to never cuss on a piece, to not use words like ‘Fuck’ or ‘Shit’ it’s not moral.
Poetry is being raped by your loved ones on internet. My thoughts have always been visceral but it’s not still an inability of my thoughtful critique. I have no shame in telling to you that I don’t acknowledge these sets of words that you’ve used to create poetry. This jumbling of language to be literature. You are not expressing yourself but you’re punching me in the face. You want me to surrender myself to your art, poetry and literature. What difference do your art and bureaucracy then have? It’s not the lack of nuance or the terrible use of metaphors that makes your poem disgusting. It’s because it holds no sentiment. Because you carry no passion inside, you don’t carry life nor do you carry death. You’re thus not a poet, and don’t believe anything else because I am the truth.
It’s always good to put out words that don’t make sense but you know that I’ve something to say. My belief in these words makes them sound musical. They’re not harsh but truth. The Post-modernistic culture hence once again comes back in the story to tell you how you became cringe in my eyes, how you became a dumb insignificant part of my world, how we’ve rationalized being hypocritical of ourselves, how we have no shame left, how chaos can only save us, how death is random, of how absurd we’ve became, of how absurd became meaning.
