l ev i a tá n | [carlos vélez]

Carlos Vélez



It’s 9 A.M. Waking up every single day with this ghost of fictionalized dread zig-zagging through every pore has never been easy. As usual, the numbing slowly starts to circle around each of my limbs as I get out of bed. In an automatic response, I focus my hearing and attention on the steps I take from my room to the living room, then from the living room to wherever else; for some reason it helps minimize this unexplainable, yet unreachable longing. I settle down onto the oaken chair outside the house.
    .inhale.
                                  .close.
   .see.
.fear.
Dread and longing; what a wonderful pairing to have whilst having a morning coffee on the front porch: The feeling of not wanting to get past through the day as some(thing)one you anxiously want to hold on to lingers in a sea of static thoughts. I’m never sure if it’s that they disappear in the moment until the very next day, or that I’ve simply become accustomed to their unwanted company. December’s coldness begins to roam around the porch. Having forgotten to bring my jacket outside (the body is autonomous; it does not want to get inside), I dig down my feet onto these worn out shoes in hopes of receiving graced warmth.


I inhabit the frail minds of old souls
glistening under fiery skies.
Anointed are the prayers with dangers foretold;
stranded in the blemishes of R’lyeh.
I have come to slay.
I have come to conquer.


And so.
Every five hours I get a sickening headache that is just so goddamn unbearable. In this wretched house, the only solace I’ve been able to find is in the moonlit attic which belonged to my brother once; his entire vinyl collection is practically there and-, every time the record starts spinning, it’s like the headache weakens its guard with every booming flourishing from metallic rawness. I find temporary peace through music; it’s one of the things I’m genuinely proud of. The body is autonomous, however, and it does not want to get inside. 
   So I stay.
     Ever so u

          c
         h
        a
         n
          g
           i
            n
             g
            Just like time.
A glimpse of rain can be seen from the horizon. The winds whistle softly, announcing the potential arrival of a certain tempest to the already crackled branches. The wood is losing its structure, giving the splinters a pathway to feed off of unwary flesh. I feel the breeze tumbling down what little warmth I had in me. It’s alright, though. I simply try to shhhhhhhhakeitoff. Shake it off. But it stays. So I stay. My arms rest on the chair, eyes fixated at a horde of nothingness preparing for an existential ambush. Submerging deep into the azure, I give in to--
Glass breaks.
Eyes gaze.
     Claws trace.
deep. in. my. 
sk i n.
     Gone days.
Veil face.
     Dark praise.
deep. in. my...
skin


hhhmmmm, hhhhhhhh
hhhmmmm, hhhhhhhh
hhhmmmm, hhhhhhhh

And so-
The representation of external allegories manifested through chronic numbness is but a construction of vivid thoughts- As the harvests of unwanted experiences gather up in cryogenic cognition the individual can then then then attest to his or her own experience- Gods and entities are but emotional ploys for those in need of dominance- The thickness of blood is more prone to de de de de demolish one’s inner foundation secured from times immemorial {no}- Every grain of sand picked up from the void will fall back to everflowing erasure- Power is indifferent when it comes to its targets- The silkiness of lachrymose seas entices the individual to submerge in chaotic bliss- Emotions are but a cluster of paradoxes {stop}- The devil in in in inside has been fed- Its satisfaction heavily radiates through each withered pulse- The days are null- The nights are null- The suffocating nothingness punctures through this already withered skull-
Black, consume me-
Let me worship-
Praise the Black-
Praise the Black-
Praise the Black-

I submerge into the azure,
but the body is autonomous,
so I stay.
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