concise instructions for murdering your imaginary friend

You liar, you fool:

Your twisted truths compose the psalms of your digression;
disillusioned, factual fornication and informational discombobulation;

Recreate – the steps of the faultiness of your actions, mistakes, nil of desperation and regret;
as to force reality to realize the wrongfulness of its judgements.
Listen to the sounds of your inner soliloquy and scream the vagueness of your individuality –
empty, the world will be devoid of silence and they will hear your naive cries –

The demented cries of the lamented, an angel descends upon those who awaken;
To cut the throats of the willful forsaken.

Paint them with the colors of your sensual spirituality and inner deviance; the tainted hues of subdued want and saturated lust. Ink your linen with rage and destruction. Fuel your creativity with the deaths of your anti-faction. All whilst indulging in the infinite depth of your incalculable desires. Bewitch the canvas with the arousal of your pen. With each stroke, climax, and execute extreme euphoria. With each thrust, sublime, and sense maximum pleasure.

Justified, pornographic holiness – the results of the progression of your subliminal creation – the final form of your carnality.



The fate of everything, I had once decided to be mine, had betrayed me. I carried on a dream far anyone could imagine, but as desperate as I am now, it will remain forever as a dream – a dream you cannot comprehend. A boundless, incomprehensible fate that I had once conjured.

No, nothing can save me now. I have fallen to the point where I could no longer believe myself.

I am useless. I serve no purpose anymore. The world sees my existence as contrite. The universe I have created, the life I had produced – is rejecting it’s creator. I am now but a shell of who I was, a carcass, detritus.

I dream’t of changing the world. The world I once despised, of whom I had loved. I hoped for salvation. I yearned for redemption – all of which I have achieved. I was happy. I created life, I made the ugly beautiful. I cleansed all those who are tainted and I gave prosperity to the unblessed. I shone light upon darkness. I defeated all those who they deemed evil. I triumphed over the barbarians. I displaced oblivion with peace. I created the perfect world worthy of my greatness.

With this, I thought I could be truly satisfied. I thought it would give meaning to everything – but then I was wrong.

I was mistaken. My ideals, my works, my creations – they all cast hell upon themselves. I was truly deluded by the perfection of my dream. A perfect dream, in which will remain a dream.

They shed blood. They swung their swords to each other’s necks. It was a sight to behold. A tainted spring of black and red – it was the realization of the truth of my ideals, that what I had created, is fated to be destroyed.

I cannot lie on the fact that I adored even in their slaughter. After all, they embody my will and my tenement. Their deeds, their blood, their flesh – all of which once belonged to mine. All of it, which is mine alone. 

After the cries had faded, I walked the earth of flesh I had loved. 

I have failed.

But then again, I did not lose hope.

I gave. I loved. I created.

They stole. They hated. They destroyed.

An endless dream of passion and murder – a corrugation of glass and flesh, a calm lake of puke and excrement.

Their fate, my fate did not change.

That is when I decided, I will destroy the world myself. It is because I loved them so much, that I shall be the one to end their suffering.

I gave. I loved. I created.

I stole. I hated. I destroyed.

An endless dream of warmth and corruption – a concoction of bile and diamonds, a subtle rain of blood and acid.

Their fate, my fate did not change, but something else was. it is I.

I resigned myself from thyself. I realized I had lost sights on my true intentions. I began to regret all of which I had done until now. All of them. 

I cannot be myself anymore.

Those are my last thoughts, as I lay down the cold tiled floor, holding the tool I have proven to be unworthy of. 

But I cannot fall just yet. I should at least throw the drafts to the dustbin.

Remarks pt. 2

Oh. Apparently they’re going to jail.

Now what. Happy now? Or you want to hope to replace them with your self-righteous deeds, biased opinions, and fallacious arguments?

Did you know what is the problem? Did you help solve anything at all?

Have you ever looked at yourself? Have you realized that you aren’t doing anything at all to help anybody at all?

Is there anything you can do aside from whining on how corrupt the goddamn government is now while enjoying your three times a day meal, a nice bed to sleep on, a complete set of appliances, a good education, a mother, a father, friends, and the liberty of free speech?

Why don’t we all shut up and think. Why don’t we all stand up and work. Why don’t we all open our eyes, listen with our ears, and walk with our own two feet. We shouldn’t care about anything else. We should be happy for what we already have. We should be satisfied.

But that cannot be possible. We’re humans after all. We are alive, and as long as we are alive, we won’t be satisfied. So what should we do? Die? Is that even an option? It’s actually funny, because no sane person wants to. You dont want to. You can’t solve anything at all. Nothing will be changed.

So yes. Celebrate. For tomorrow, everything will get back to what once had been the past. Because nothing will be different.

At least, for you and your asshat beliefs and predicaments.

No, you will not see change. You will not be satisfied. You will still live on, and be the self-righteous being the world does not need.

No thanks for your existence.



On your fake families. On your fake friends. On your fake husband and wife. On your fake children. On your fake relationships. On your fake makeup. On your fake lifestyle. On your fake stories. On your fake literature. On your fake knowledge and wisdom. On your fake advancement to life.

For every morning you wake up alive, because you hadn’t had a heart attack, you hadn’t been stabbed, you hadn’t been raped to death, you hadn’t been shot in the head by a stray bullet – in your sleep.

For every slice of meet you eat to satisfy your hunger, because it had to live, and die to serve its purpose.

For each promise you have broken. For each coin you took from someone else’s purse. For each insect and animal you have killed. For each plastic bottle you’ve thrown in the middle of the highway. For each unfinished plate you’ve eaten. For each corner and wall you have pissed on. For each beggar you have turned a blind eye to. For each person you have cursed at. For each exam you have cheated to pass. For each official you have bribed. For each person you have hurt physically, mentally, and emotionally. For each step you took forward to bring everybody off-course.


For every time you inhale, you deprive every one of air. For every time you speak, you deprive every one of a chance to hear a better sound. For every time you stood still, you deprive every one of space.

Congratulations. For being born.


Stasis. The un-movement of thought,
     Newborn, fluctuating ideas of naught.
Corrugated staircases
Unnatural movement
Sounds of undefined frequencies
Questionable ideas of creation,
     Curated, a museum of daunting confusion.
Broken mirrors
Unwritten narratives
Sensations of passionate madness
Titillating, moans of silence,
     Halting, a fast-forward of silence.
Dark pathways
Reminiscing moments
Preparing final messages
Tears, flowing, forgotten sadness,
     Ink, fulfilling, spaces of loneliness.
Freedom from selfishness
Freedom from happiness
Slow, curious steps of indecisiveness,
     Holding, the options of continuance.
Corrugated staircases; unnatural movement – forceful self-affliction.
A leap of assured termination,
     Red, tainted floors of damnation.

on writing

I always am intrigued in the way writers present their ideas in a form everyone could relate to – whatever the topic may be, from instructions on a cookbook, to an expert technical journal about the theory of everything. Why am I asking that? Well, that is – I am being tasked to write an essay about how the 8 Streams of Confluent Learning affect me as a functional module of our interactive society. I have no idea on how to write it. Writers compose their literature with the notion of expressing themselves – to inform the other consciousness using defined, learned methods of expression with artistic or academic worth. To suggest an answer to a proposed argument – in a way that would exhibit response from the audience and capture that a confirmation to an answer you have presented in your masterpiece.

By no means, I am no writer – I prefer myself to be labelled as a narrator – a narrator whose goal is not to inform, but to mystify. Dislodged, words, scattered irresponsibly on type, there was never a fundamental pattern in my messages. I never liked the idea that writing should be formal; structured – hence, I take myself not as one. To note, since I have the freedom of saying whatever I want here, I will have to do it my way.

With that in mind, I asked myself a question. In the same sense, regardless of my personal preference, why are we writing? One answer is that, writing, is a fundamental aspect of communication. It is only secondary to speech – of which both are ways of expression; a method of ascertaining existence. It might be that I have answered the question already, but I am still uncertain about it. As with uncertainty, I am with complete assurance that it is also an avenue for self-satisfaction. That is the reason why I am writing. I want to satisfy my inexplicable endearment of painting the literary canvas with my cerebral paintbrush. It has come to me that I had the disappointment that I should have put my career as a poet, nevertheless, I couldn’t be too happy at where I am right now. In the end, I still have the freedom to narrate my inner thoughts.

Freedom. This might be the other reason why we write. In text, boundless universes are created, limitless dreams, dazzling color arrays, unfathomable possibilities exist. Writing is a window to an expanded reality – an extension of the physical realm. A play where the director can be the actor himself – orchestrating the most beautiful of symphonies and executing the most emotional of climaxes. But, what about the un-self?

I can affirm another reason as to why I am writing. There is this, innate need of others. The unfaltering need to be recognized. Again, the need to reaffirm the self-existence. Yes. The readers. You don’t have to understand, but I know, at least, that this piece had been seen, if not remembered. That is enough for me to create pieces that reaffirm my attachment to living – a concrete proof of my humanity.

In conclusion – as I would like to say, but I don’t think I have to. Writing is only a window to an expanded reality – I should have to look inside, behind the window to be able to confirm if I have answered anything at all. I would have to peek at the window sometime again when I have found more answers to a question that I didn’t have to ask.



I can’t write anything at the moment. I feel empty, devoid of words. I seem to be out of ideas. My melancholy, the source of my encouragement and inspiration to write, appears to be insufficient. I once had the skill to turn those misery into words into which only I can comprehend, but those words that I know are unique, and destructive. Artful could be the right word to describe it, but I call it madness, the darkness of my unconscious literature, the devolution of feelings and apathy; Oh what fine prose, those of which could deliver death and life – nothing. Empty, are my mind of murder, oblivion and decay. This wall was once painted with imaginary red, now with hollow white. The drama, the insightful disrespect of flow and continuity of action, the crass impalpability of my inexistent characters: they roam my world no more. They left me without anything. I can’t even explain how it came to this – this obvious waste of time writing this – this effective description of my incapability of doing this – this wall of text written by the null self. There is no meaning to anything at all. This text shouldn’t equate to anything useful, as with anything at all. There is no concept. There is no explanation. There are no rules for the creation – the creation of lifeless lines deprived of context and sense. As with inexistence, writing should be free and unbound. Without context, a new universe of endless definitions and perception will arise. Freedom, the expression of existence through the darkness of words, the creation of life through the death of meaning – ah, this is an epiphany.