Every once in a while, I’ll think of the right things in the right order and be shaken to my core by the concept of permanent unconsciousness.
The first week I came back for the summer, I destroyed a set of books: the first, by drowning, meticulously waterboarding every single page as the whole became drenched to the bone; the second, at the stake, slowly melting the cover and singing the page ends before finally setting it fully aflame; the third, torturously, tearing out a single page at a time until my fingers were acting on their own accord, furiously ripping out whole chapters, leaving only a disfigured spine.
I have only ever been genuinely interested in one thing: destruction.
And while it feels good to watch the plastic figures of childhood melt, or taste the ashes of a trashload of mementos and souvenirs set ablaze, or touch the water that smears the ink on a confession no one will ever read, and while the catharsis comes and I stand watching, alone, dripping, soaking wet in symbolism, my hand moving, making contact with my own slick skin, and this climax, damn, it feels so good, so right--
It means nothing unless I destroy something real.