Go For A Punch by Elijah Rah
“It’s all grotesque isn’t it,” he thought; it’s a distortion of some unnameable thing; the passcode to peace is a place that does not exist, in a plane we cannot reach; those hands that create the world and those child’s fingers that jam and get severed and create in factories the phones and computers that send waves throughout the world are scraped trying to stop a descent into a never-ending well; the mud against the water is forever lingering in the nose but a splash is never heard and wetness is never felt and the impact of water like concrete against the soft flesh shall never splatter guts across the well. It’s all grotesque; life is distorted by experience and belief and he found himself barely able to make it out of high school; the house and hospice of being prances like a hypnotized child around the sun while the father of language watches its petulant child refuse to give up on courting viruses; he looked to the stars and liked to think the Milky Way was a stage for the play of planets and stars yet only one planet contained the ability to think of galaxies in such a fashion; the Earth and the sun stood in dialogue transcribed in a thousand ways with a thousand beginnings and a thousand endings. He listened to songs that brought him a phantom peace while the fluid nature of sadness refused to drip out of his eyes; the planets sing but not for anyone yet without the human being the planets do not sing as no one is there to say the planets sing through a metaphysical, spiritual conception.
It’s all distorted, he thought. One day he will be forced to work a job and buy things he doesn’t want but convince himself he wants while a void labeling everything he loves and hates swirls around in a hypnotizing spiral. It’s all grotesque; the ideal to find is a product and the achievement of such product is working to buy such product and once such product is obtained, you can fall into disarray until something new is defecated out into the world; a sun-bleached orifice with a solar glow transgresses the limits of what it means to be. It’s all grotesque like a blob of brain and flesh, like a blob of vomit and shit preserved through artificial means; the stink never gets any better.
He had picked up plenty of words and known plenty of people and attached them to plenty of names and had plenty of memories and yet those words never satisfied, those people could never provide in all the ways he needed, the name was a fetid flower of anxiety sprouting under the sun, and he knew memories would fade with time and he knew of their ability to make him cling to the negative. He looked out from the self and gripped his hands around jagged metal bars to view the outer reaches of the illusion of exteriority; the stars conceal themselves in the bowels of personhood.
He found a video on a movie about girls killing themselves after a philosophical discussion. Something compelled to project answers onto such a piece of lost media. It was art and if it turned out to be false it would be the biggest mirage of unknown acts of cruelty. He needed to see those painted frames coalescing into cosmic answers even as it was made from things mined from the Earth and cut down from trees. A few years later he found out it was fake but he no longer needed the answer from such an artwork; he needed much more and he needed something different.
