The Monster Says

The monster says, "Oh, you have antipathies. Those are as good as gold. Those are as good as endearments." By this, my monster means there is motivation, a bad surfeit of it in the world. There is motivation in the world. This is gold. To have motives is gold, an endless fountain keeping one at rapt attention. Antipathies are such a fountain. What could be more nourishing to this inner spirit than a QWERTY dipped in vitriol and not even held at any place in the magic, dipping moment, like Achilles with that baby heel of his, dripping with it, and oh those annealing properties of the nasty stuff? Use a magic string.  Certainly, it gets you out of bed. It makes you believe in magic numbers between you and the objects of your antipathies, which are the subject. The unreal interface of these magic numbers is everything. It is as real and interesting as the molten gold of a trashy pond's surface when the sun is at the perfect angle to produce phantasmagoria. The things that humans dropped are focal points. Trash. In those moments, you believe the quickening gold surface of the water, its arabesques and trills of light, is a secondary source of being, a symptom of light and not light itself. So the illusion is had, which is exhausting and somehow tainted with pleasure, like all illusions. But this impels you forward. So your monster falls silent at the "correct moment," to keep you grasping at this texture which is ultimately itself, other, another wasted opportunity to swallow an actual star and feel its slow burn, the gift of a certain form of blindness burning inside you, that acid star, so brightly at home within one that to open one's eyelids is no longer seeing.