There is a creeping sense that this will all be ending soon. The wolves are already baying at the door, their fangs bared, flaked with the carrion of the past. These are not humans in wolfen garb, they are rather figments of my own regret, made valiant by the depths of indecision and self-contempt to which I have sunk.
Is this the way of the Nietzschian phase? Is it simply a withdrawal of Rousseau from my blood, the departure of decadence that fells me so low? I know that of this answer, I am ignorant.
The waking moments seem more strained, more tedious, they hammer down on the coffin lid, begging it closed. The daily journey is now fraught with tremors of the approaching cataclysm. Where once lingered literary thoughts and wistful ambition, now lies a Sartrian Nausea.
The wolves are so close now, I can feel the airy tendrils of their stinking breath reach inside me and clasp a soul that tries to hide, in vain. For it hides in shadows that serve as no refuge. It hides in shadows born from an eclipse of human feeling. The amorality lingers, as if waiting for the final chimes of the bell that would signal a last burst for freedom.
Yes, freedom: It has so interwoven with death; one can no more make out any difference between the two. One must surely follow the other now, of that I am certain. True freedom can only come away from the rottenness of this flesh that pens me in.
The time is near…I feel it. Time to shut down the machines that keep me alive through the storm of my own creation. Time to cast one last look. Time for one last wallow in the self-piteous morass of existence. Time to answer the bugles that herald in the distance.
But there are no bugles, only the drone of the machine. The cacophonic whirring of its cogs as it re-sets itself one last time.
The expectation has weighed heavily over the last few months, and the beast of burden is faltering under the weight of his own inadequacies – denied for so long.
There will be no more denial; there will be no more obfuscation. There will be clarity. If it’s the last thing I do, I will attain the pedestal of truth. Not the truth that we conjure to suit our sickly needs, but the truth that drips from the flower of knowledge.
It is time to go. I feel it every time the trains rush by. Freedom lies away from the wolves, especially those that reside within me.
I must go and end this putrid time. It is close…I must hold on but for a short while longer. Freedom is at hand.
