[a series written a million years ago by a total goth.
unearthed for amusement. posted in parts.
a ridiculed man desperate to find evidence
of the soul embarks on a murderous journey. PART 1, PART 2.]
The Horseman’s First Diary Entry
I am a gravely isolated man from society and this epoch of my life is one of equally self-orchestrated and unavoidable solitude.
While providing a sort of tranquility this alienation has also infected me with the disease of utter tedium; utter loneliness. It gnaws at me slowly in the darkest hours of the velvet night and seems suddenly to pounce my usually idle spirits with a yearning for company. A bleak comprehension of the worlds machinations and collective failings has lead me to this place; where I am mindful of those who would mistreat me for how I am and for how I look. For this, I chose my solitude over humiliation.
I watch when no one else is watching, that is, I watch others, observing them and how they act when under the impression that nobody is watching them. I observe, I study. I examine. I am as invisible to them and to you as a spider in the attic. I am passed by without a glance; I am he who is just a heap of rubble in the elbow of an alley. A passing streak of wool, a grey winter’s coat, a faded, anonymous man. What I hoard from these observations is not a scintillating or inspirational wisdom as to a divine potential sitting inside the heart of people, waiting for its name to be called, no! The knowledge I have gained is not as an unearthed diamond uncovered in awe having been buried in a grave of molten dirt for an incalculable string of searing years. There is nothing lovely to reveal in my knowledge, no dusty, mineral beauty from underneath blackness. No, this unrecognized gem I see in others is chipped, it is a broken mirror, a pulverized thing of its purity. It is a curse. It is a deception, a decoration, like an irremovable mask they wear, melded to their eyes and chin. It is the hideousness of the hidden evil within us all, rare in some, but there still. And this knowledge is unpleasantly grim to me but unsurprising.
Human beings are vastly ignorant and mostly passionless creatures, and this has driven me mad. If you deviate from the conventional lines, have opposing attitudes on the enchanting, a strange gait, an odd face, you are an outcast. The universes fugitive instead of its refugee. Can I not lead a normal life of sociability with like minds (where are the like minds, but ever far away?), affection, and normalcy? Can I not engage in as mundane a task as purchasing tobacco without hateful stares, whispered insults, or evidence of spit found upon the back of my coat once home and retiring for the evening? I am spat on because I look different. Sometimes I ache for what it would’ve been like to have a mother. A true mother. But then I am reminded of why she was rid of me as a child, each time I sigh into the mirror in the raw, terrible reflection in the morning. It is common. Especially, in my former profession…
She abandoned me, and this life has abandoned me, and I suppose the news of my abandoning it is welcomed. However, I am in search of the thing that shall live on from the mortal shell which I shall shed soon. I am in search of that thing which, heretofore, has ever so tactfully avoided solid perception, that thing which leaves only traces of its former occupancy once it is launched out at death, that immaterial wonder—does it exist, does it not?—does my mind play tricks on me, soothing tricks, assuring me that I do indeed feel it when I really focus, that someday I’ll be free?
The psychic, Cornelia, has given me news I am afraid that I believe. And it has given me a new venture to embark on with the motivation of a madman, and the urgency of a dying one, whether she is accurate or not. There will be blood. I know well that there is something else, there has to be, I want there to be, and I will come upon it inevitably… I will find where, in the body, the soul hides itself.
written by: samantha lucero circa early 2000’s ©
image: the man who laughs