Sunday noon vulgar

Here I am.

My hands became translucent and I desired my... annihilation. 
Limb by limb.

Ephemeral the life is, so limited... unlimited the non-existence is, so unlimited...

I realize that the original sin is the human mind and its own existence and conscience. 
I was fed with guilt and fear, because... the human is the only animal who's born with blood in his hands
blood.

Our sin is our own existence: poor the human! The human.

This mind of mine, jail or salvation, depending on; depending on.
Cursed torture forged in demented subtleties: won't you ever leave me alone?
Even if I wouldn't exist anymore: would you leave me alone, Mind God?

Conscience of good and the evil, for the hermit holy man of Palestine and for the barbaric blood-drinker of Scandinavia. For the napoleonic soldier and  for the supermodel on the catwalk.

You are the blind leper of India, the patriarch by the Red Sea, the anthropophagous manbeast of the Stone Age; you are the medieval antipope, the whore of the temple: you're human, you're them all.

But, if I just could melt myself in the purest emptiness, in the lack of conscience forever

it wouldn't be just another cage?


Why are you so cruel?