At least once a week I get a dream of being kicked in the ribs while on the ground. I look down and see me on the floor and give another vicious kick. I hurt and I hit, full of malice. Every new time the kicker becomes the kicked, the chain of violence and pain gets another link.
I try and contain my pain. I withhold my screams, but every time I kick harder and I eventually break. I scream silently, the fog of the dreamworld absorbs it and no one is aware of the torture being inflicted and endured.
There are many other things I dream of. I dream of messing up all the road signs wherever I go. I dream of smashing traffic lights. I dream of emptying bottles of washing up liquid into public fountains. I dream of running over protestors on a highway. I dream of getting high up on a building in the city and firing a catapult at anyone who looks like they deserve it. I visualise burning modern art. I imagine the motion of curb stomping paedophiles, furries, bankers, lawyers and anyone who abuses dogs. In my dreams I wonder, lustfully, at the sensation one might feel when assassinating a degenerate or a tyrant.
A part of me wishes ignorance was bliss. A part of me wants to be a simple taxi driver, a carpenter or a lumberer in the woods. I wish girls were nice, boys not toxic, men not evil, women not manipulative and illogical. I wish university degrees were useful and demographic replacement a lie.
I wish I was a tailor on Saville row and I could work on my craft and just focus on producing the best suit possible. I wish there was no pollution, no war, no race riots, no engineered diseases, no grand conspiracies, no degrading morality and no impending dystopia. I’d love a quiet life. I’d love a nice life.
These are all part of me. My desire for them is genuine, but I cannot follow these little parts. The summit of the mountain beckons, but I feel I could be ripped apart at any moment or plunge into the abyss.
For what do we truly live?
Nonetheless I climb.
Thought Horizon 