I’m not a ‘clean freak’. I’m very messy as a matter of fact, but I like to have control over the things around me. Certain things need to be a certain way and this way need not satisfy one’s obsession with cleanliness or order but rather satiety of the soul, control over the earth, over the earth you own, the one you belong to. This order and the power it derives, not a chronological or semantic order but rather a transcendental one, makes you feel at home. Your body is a home, a store of your subjective experiences and thoughts, likes and dislikes, a whole new reality. Your subjective experiences and reality are not ordered or even structured at times, but yet you like it to be a certain way. Look at the men of delusion, they pray to keep their structures safe, but those structures don’t always make sense, and perhaps they’re not supposed to. The world immediately around me is then an extension to my body, a room of one’s own, an unstructured reality that doesn’t have to make sense, all that is necessary is control over it. In the absence of all stability, one that most humans derive from deities and caffeine, one is then desperate to exert as much control as possible. The will to power manifests itself, the body’s desire to exert its strength. What then shall be done when the limbs of one own are cut off? The limbs that are the space one exerts its control over. What if that extends to your actual body? What if this perverts your actual self? Your soul? Your subjective reality? A mold has formed around these walls and these spread quickly. You kill them off with poison and yet they return, for they are poison themselves. The walls of your space are black and you have now lost control. This mold will eventually take over you, your subjectivity. It’s strange though. Most individuals run away, run far far away from such molds. Why aren’t you running then? Isn’t it obvious? The mold had tied you to a space even before you let your subjectivity grow. You could roam the world, settle elsewhere, but this mold will not leave. It’s a ghost of the past, worse than a bad dream. Eventually, you realize the mold might someday originate from you. It will prey on your subjectivity to evolve into something more dangerous, a monster that cannot be defeated as it sucks out the life out if which stops you from fleeing or struggling to survive, and then swallows you whole while you sit there in the darkness. It feeds on you slowly, savoring every sorrow, every suffering, every tear, every weakness. You create another room and another and another, hoping that the next one does not have mold, but this is mere denial. After much pain and suffering, You understand the mold and Know there is no escape and eventually you surrender yourself. You don’t hope for a Deus ex Machina or a miracle, you’ve accepted and prepared yourself. You laugh at the stupidity of it all. You realize there was no control, all that you thought you had control over, was merely an illusion. And so you give into a final illusion as you sit beneath the shower ready to accept the mold and the mold then takes the final bite, preparing to find another prey.
Note: I was not really in a good state when I wrote this, it made sense to me then but now I’m not sure, I have not read it again, couldn’t get myself to.