From: Typhon@yabbs
To: all@yabbs
Subject: The spirit who denies 
Date: Wed Aug 17 19:26:59 1994
Warning...I was reading Faust, helping a friend get her own apartment, and 
drinking heavily while I wrote the following semi-poem...Take it for what 
ever you want.

SLAM, SLAM DOWN, RESPOND IN KIND
MALCONTENT, DON'T GO AWAY
BURN, BURN DOWN, TEMPLE OF THE CONSCIENCE
DON'T GO AWAY---Overkill, Gasoline Dreams

What do I feel? Can I feel?
I don't pretend to know. She thinks she feels joy. I think she's deluded. 
I don't believe it exists. And I will never believe it. Joy to me is an 
insanity born of lack of comprehension of actuality and circuimastances as 
they are. Of actual occurances.
I read somewhere that humans are cursed by their intellect...I am pleased, 
theretofore, to report that the curse has been avoided by the vast 
majority of humanity quite spectacularly. Males and females are both 
bigoted and hateful, and no race is innocent of blame. They always look 
for someone to blame. They should be blaming their own lack, their evil 
minds, their compulsions to cruelty and wanton violence and sheer 
stupidity.
They've killed so much of the feeling in me. I hang here like a withered 
limb shot full of shrapnel, scarred but able to function, but incapable of 
the extrees of sensation any longer...deadened, greying, dying by degrees.
They've ripped out so much of what I could have been. What I wanted to be. 
I was capable of so much emotion when I was younger...but now a bitterness 
clouds over my mind and a wry, dry and dark chuckle wheezes out of the 
sepulchre of my soul, and I don't know if I'm alive anymore.
Before the campaign of terror (And never be fooled: Human Children are 
evil, cruel, crazed with bloodlust and hostile to ANYTHING that is 
different or weak, adept at sniffing it out no matter where you try and 
bury it.  There parent's must make them so, right? They can't be this vile 
inherently. But maybe they are?) I was a little boy, four years old, tiny 
eyes already straining from trying and successfully forcing them to take i 
the words I'd discovered lying in wait for me inside the only friends I 
had, skin worm-white from huddling away from the harsh yellow of the suna 
nd the squirming, angry, shouting mass of hate that surged all around me.
They beat me physically until I learned not to quiver, or mona, or cry, 
and they savaged me mentally until I learned to shut myself down. I 
waited, and waited, and eventually when I was able I stopped the physical, 
but the mental is unceasing, I can taste it with every hoarse and strident 
whisper, meant for me to hear.
That's why I'm a cripple, tottering on healthy legs, unable to care about 
anything anymore, unable to tell anyopne how I feel, deep in my icebound 
heart I'm afraid to melt away the glaciers because what if they are all I 
am, all I have, All I'll ever be? What if all I am is that dusty wry 
chuckle, the offhand hate, the disgust at what they tried to do to me? 
What am I? WHAT THE FUCK AM I?

I don't know.

I AM THE SPIRIT THAT DENIES FOREVER!
AND RIGHTLY SO! FOR WHAT HAS ARISEN FROM THE VOID
DESERVES TO BE ANNIHILATED.
IT WOULD BE BEST IF NOTHING WOULD EVER ARISE.--Mephistopheles to Faust, 
FAUST

I feel so little now, I know it's burning under the sheets of bleu pinning 
my brain, but I can't let it out. I can't let myself feel, I'm afraid that 
I'm dead or dying inside, and that one day I'll just stop...I'll have 
accumulated too much damage and I just WON'T anymore. I am not a 
nihilist...I am Nihilism. I am the void, anti-life, the Shiva of my own 
soul, the end of existing. I'm too arrogant to let myself off the hook, 
too alienated to stop the lemming urge...I know how little I am,
how small and petty all things are.

Typhon the Insignificant