The banality and absurdity of my life at first engaged, and then engulfed, me. Was it not enough for God to laugh at me from his sky-high catbird’s seat? No. He must also disembowel me with the eerie cognizance of His cosmic snicker. I, whose belief in the deity amounts to no more than Eve’s flight from irresponsibility and into the matronly mangle of sex and afterbirth. I would know what I am and what I do. Anything is acceptable, I proclaim. Anything, that is, except ignorance.
So these myths that cling to one, as clods of clouds trail the godhead from heaven to earth, are no more than a sonorous nuisance. I have prepared for death to accept me. Death is the lover who, however longed-for, however cursed, never fails to arrive. And so my Satanic insistence on the singleness of my sin is my gift to Death. I, my lover, am not a mere portion of the horde, the amorous mass who come to your fatal kisses. No, no. I am as far from my fellow mortals as flesh and errancy may stretch a man. If a spirit in this dungheap may do more than sleep and mate, then mine has done so. Once set on my track from imprisoning paradise, I have spurned the creator who set me in my sigil vigil. I know that none can regain their place as an innocuous parcel of that majesty. My feet were steaming to you, Death, who are not mere obliteration, mere reconsumption into the creases of God’s smile. That must never be! History is an arrow that, once flown from the twanging hand, may never resume its bloodless innocence. Therefore, I hope without hope of holiness. I expect without expectation of heaven. Only Hell, only Death awaits. Those who cannot see this live in a pristine mockery of sin. Theirs are the hollow lives, the lies lived among the powdery clouds of amnesiacs. Their best hope is to forget that they were ever born. I, for one, will never forgive the fact.
As mythic or fictional as my meaning may be, never doubt that I am I. They would cover me in lies and guesses so that I would be but a sheep of their herd–a blackened and barbarous baa bleating from my opium-brown lips, perhaps–but a sheep nevertheless. But this is not to be. This cannot be. I cannot not be I. And, being myself, the one who will not gainsay the death of Death, nor long for the unloss of non-ness, I am the only one who can say anything at all. My silence alone would be God’s ending. If I for once shut-up, as if I had never begun to have been, that would be my uncreation. If uncreated, there would be no creator. So, dear Deity, when I chant my magpie charms to Satan, recall that it is by your grace alone that Satan is so praised. I will not praise You, for I do not so denigrate this bitching gift of life to wish myself to go unmade to my maker. No, instead, I flee from You, taking my life with me in my errant hands, my life–to give it up only, and uniquely, to Death.
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