Society of the Godless.

A lunatic is a lunatic is a lunatic.

I had a dream. A dream wherein the world was flat, and in the sky huge detached heads hung with bulbous cheeks blowing the currents of the wind; a 1700’s copper stick mangled into a pornographic panorama – meaning what? The “Dream-coach” could not tell me, he merely raved on about personal issues I felt were in no way related to the issue at hand. But such is our individualist society. Every human a universe on its own, unrelated; betwixt the different universes are no threads, no connections, just magnetic forces distantly acting upon one-another, constellations of stars radiating rays of energy into space too faint to be seen, worm-holes, spatial paradoxes—the enigma, the unexplainable, remains unexplained; the knowledge we could not gain because we were busy contemplating whether we should wear a red or a blue tie to the graduation ceremony.

The focus lost, in Tibet the separatists, the brainless ethnocentric scum, running in circles on the streets of Lhasa; this is lend-lease; “we give you the guns, but you fight”, thus spake Dalai Lama, the old uninterested leader—the Brezhnev of the East—and flushed down a handful of painkillers with a shot of whiskey. I am from The League of the Militant Godless; we come to you tonight with only one goal in mind. We shall put your God on the cross, to prove to you it is a mere mortal much like you; we are well-exercised in the fine art of executing ideas. An Idea can survive the longest human lifespan, but it cannot survive us. We’ll light a fire underneath the cross and dance, and we’ll say “Nyah” a million times before the fire dies.

Love - don’t love

That depends on the eye that sees,
that depends on the heart that beats.

Deep down inside I long (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside I cry (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside

A volcano - an ocean of time
A cloud creates shadows of doubts

Deep down inside I long (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside I cry (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside I grief (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside

A closed hand,
bloody string.
A closed mind -
angel blind
There is a medicine

Deep down inside I long (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside I cry (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside I grief (nothing will be like before)
Deep down inside

Rehased notions of dreams; combat the lack of creativity.

Speaking of dreams, last night I had a nice vivid dream, one of those long ones that seem like they are different dreams woven together. It found myself on a field by a muddy slope down towards a stream. It’s one of those local streams that have no real names, but everyone just call it The Stream. I was not alone; a former friend I haven’t seen in many years was there with me. He was doing something down in the water, maybe digging for clams or trying to capture the small freshwater fish not yet killed by some oil spill with his hands. I look up at the sky, dark clouds coming in from the west. “It looks like we’ll get rain”, I tell him, but I don’t think he hears, he’s caught up in the mud digging.

After a while, he turns to me and vomits out a flat uninterested “what?” I tell him it looks like we’ll get rain or something. A cold breeze comes in from the west, northwest to be precise, and embraces us, rattling the browning leafs in the trees growing in the swampy vicinity of the stream. “Yeah, yeah”, he says, “we’ll get going soon enough, nothing to worry about.” He has a camera around his neck, one of those old analogue ones. History. This scenario smells like 1995.

Eventually he tires of whatever he’s doing, photographing earthworms in the wet mud, maybe, and we get on two bikes. It doesn’t look like the bike I used to have, it’s blue and red, a paradoxical political intercourse; and we pedal across the field and across the dirt road by the school that leads up to the old military ammunitions storage they downsized some ten years ago. As we cross the school yard and I encounter a peculiar notion of nostalgia, a vague memory from long ago, it begins to snow from the darkening skies. It’s not cold at all, it’s warm, summer time, yet from the sky the purest snow ever, white like virginity, and it doesn’t melt as it hits the ground, it lands like volcanic ash, and our bikes leave a trail.

We take the path through the woods, it does not look like it does in reality; it isn’t paved and it passes on a narrow ledge above a marsh full of tropical-looking ferns, highly odd looking for this region in reality. But it is a dream, so I do not reflect on this, I merely absorb the feeling in the air, a notion on unreality, a strangeness and relief of being not-me ever-present in my dreams. We come out of the forest, and follow a narrow road up to a large house.

I guess you might say it looks like something out of a bad horror movie; it’s Dreams In The Witch-house, and this is the witch-house in Arkham; the walls weathered and in demand or urgent attention, but none has cared for many years. He hands me a camera, my former friend, says something I don’t register and walks up to the door. I follow, insecurely – or maybe that is just my real perception of what I would have done were it not a dream? – and we walk up a set of stairs that lead to a door inside the house; apparently it is arranged with partitions, i.e. a block of flats. An old lady opens- my maternal grandmother, strangely- though in this dream she is my former friends’ mother, nothing else. “It’s coming!” she says, “It’s coming to town! Let’s get up on the roof!” And on the roof the view is spectacular, despite the chilling rain that has now replaced the volcanic-ash-snow, and despite (or because of?) the horrific thunder and the flashes of lightning, purple and orange, white and blue, green and yellow. It’s raining immensely, and the wind has picked up, it’s hard to see for my hair gets in my eyes. “There it is!” she screams, and amongst the buildings towards the city – which looks strangely Japanese, must be my weeaboo traits playing a trick on me – I can see it, a tornado.

It’s a grey funnel that now reaches down from the clouds, and we hear the noises it makes as it shatters windows and entire buildings down in the valley; it seems we are on a ridge of sort, which looks nothing like anything I’ve seen in real life. The cityscape is not that of my usual City-of-Dreams, either. “What if it comes this way?” my former friend asks my maternal grandmother-gone-his-mother, “shouldn’t we try to find someplace more secure to hold out? Why do we stand on the roof?” And his mother tells him that the view is the best from up here. “What about the security risk?” And she says with great certainty that it will not hurt us, that it knows “respect”.

“Capture it”, my former friend says as we are riding a boat down a narrow channel by small wooden houses surrounded with lush greenery. I hold a camera and I can see the tornado sweeping through distant neighbourhoods through its zoom lens. I click a few times, capture a few pictures.

Suddenly, we are surrounded by ruins. Everywhere caved in homes and pulverised concrete, here and there still standing structures, partially collapsed homes, a burning school; it’s still raining, and it seems to be turning towards night. A dead body floats in the waterway behind us.

I am alone in the little boat. It looks like a kayak of sorts. I drift along a beach in the darkness, it’s still a bit windy and every now and the salty ocean spray come into my mouth. And I feel depressed; drifting alone along a shoreline lined with abandoned and collapsed hotels. But at the same time, it is a strong moment, the kind of moment when you take a deep breath and reflect upon how awesome the surroundings really are. Then there was something about a library, and then I woke up smiling, so glad I had a dream–

Let’s get curious.

There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused, and my utter indifference to it, I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

And the sun never sets on the Queen’s vast empire. I don’t… understand what it is you are doing here. Is there something on your mind, something you’d like to share? I can’t really write at this time, too tired, I ought to sleep, but alas, laziness has got the better of me.

I can hear it. The tapping on the windows, the paws in the snow; the tracks I found this morning on the roof outside my window; I know it was here, watching me with hungry eyes. But it is not foolish. It does not just act on whims. It’s cold and calculates its every move in advance. I walk through the dark and I feel a certain presence, a lurking horror waiting to consume me. Slashed pectoral fins on gables; this is a fish market of horrors, shark fin soup and even whale meat, even though whales are not fishes, though the writers of the Bible thought so.

Maybe it’s a dragon, it’s that lunatic from Unexplained Mysteries, “draconic chronicler”, who thinks dragons are responsible for many unresolved disappearances around the world every year; it’s that retarded guy writing about the “money matrix” with his zero knowledge of economy and the workings of currencies—and quite what I am saying I am unsure, but I guess it goes into the category of hatred & bigotry. Winter storms in China leave people stranded on railway stations in the cold and BBC thinks it’s some sort of horrible disaster, reflecting that it somehow suggest that the CPC is losing their edge—

Jan-Ove Sundberg updated his Swedish website. He does that a bit more often than he updates the English version; and sometimes a tad bit differently. Sundberg is deranged, I can assure you; the man has problems that rival those of many members of the Church Cult of Scientology. He chases after little girls and boys with his pompous speak about sea monsters after giving away all his old UFO material from his old days. Now he says any whale carcass is a gigantic prehistoric turtle or aquatic lizard. But of course, that rotten carcass with some sections hardened by the torrid rays of the summer sun must be a armoured monstrosity. It cannot be something prosaic, because that’s so mundane.

This one time, Sundberg tried loosing weight by taking some deadly pills that gave him diarrhoea, so he didn’t want to continue. Who wants to spend every day thinking of where the closest toilet is? I know I don’t, and that’s basically my life. Great, isn’t it, a punishment well served, wouldn’t you say? “Karma”, you might say, or the good ole’ “Some God punish immediately”. I kind of feel sad for Sundberg. Life can’t be easy on him. He is kind of crazy, but in a sad way, and he can’t help but threaten people when they write things about him he doesn’t like, he can’t help but try to pretend he’s some other people and try to insult them—I guess it cannot be helped. I wish he’d be more a reasonable fellow.

This one time, when I wrote of him and his site, he was very offended once he found out and resorted to trying to impersonate various people and commenting, saying things like how I was some ex-Norwegian Bigfoot-investigator from San Francisco and how I should be locked up.

Of course, he doesn’t compare to the crazy guy who threatened to kill me because I said a distant army-friend of his was a complete and utter moron… Humans, such pesky little bastards, always relapsing into this primal stage—fail like Invader Zim and whatever those degenerate retards like those days, maybe it’s some new crappy MMORPG—anyone who plays WoW should be shot, I could repeat that mantra forever.

I swallowed a litre of vitriol and slept in a barn full of wives
when morning came i emptied my colon on the cows
so many things to do, so little time
my every morning a ceaseless yearning, time to crack up
Snuck out and raped the willows lemon smell, to my surprise
I shat myself… no worries or qualms, I had my reserve,
Kept my calm through eerie moonless night & rage

Vanity.

When deciding what to write, it’s important to sit down and contemplate what one really wants to have said. I find this very difficult, because there is nothing I want to have said, there is nothing I want to have done other than humanity completely eliminated. Consequently, finding a subject which to treat is exceedingly difficult, as I rather not deal with some inane personal travesties. Writing about oneself would be even more uninteresting than what I am currently writing, you know, more uninteresting than crazy political commentary and wacko fundamentalist anti-religious hate-songs mixed up with endorsement of historical authoritarian leaders. However, lately I have had the misfortune of observe the communiqués of some shallow sex-fixated people, and thusly, I’d like to take this moment to discuss with you the unimportance of sex.

Western society is extremely fixated on the concept of sexual intercourse. In fact, it is often seen as an introduction into adulthood to lose ones virginity; and amongst the degenerate youth, the number of sex partners is directly related to the social status: the more sexual encounters, the higher the person will be found in the social hierarchy. Being a prostitute is not so much frowned upon as it used to be, though thankfully the act of offering vain services of pleasure for a charge is still heavily stigmatised; there is however a repulsive number of pro-prostitution lobbyist organisations, representing some brain-dead harlots that gladly sacrifice their bodies for the sexual gratification of others in order to receive material rewards; either money or simply enjoying the act of sex.

Pleasure is irrelevant. Pleasure brings nothing; enjoyment is unimportant, undesirable even; continued reproduction and creation of new offspring is the most disgusting and diseased act to dedicate oneself to. Every child should hold his or her parents responsible for the most atrocious of crimes ever, the birthing of new life, the creators of pain and unendurable suffering. Abortion needed, not voluntary, a requirement, a must; no child shall ever again be born, no new human life upon this planet shall be created, artificially or naturally, no difference, loathsome all the same; I reject it, I reject sexual intercourse; the retards say that I am “just jealous”; they can think whatever they want, I hold my principles dear, and I do not part from them in any way apart from in frenzied fantasy.

Last night I dreamt of a dark world subdued by endless raining and war, murderous legions of the undead, Zombies, were walking all over the world, and in the mines and on the beaches I had to fight my way through a mindless shooting game with a rubbish Ayn Rand Rifle that constantly would jam. It looked similar to a Sturmgewehr 44, in general, though it did not feature automatic fire and its magazines contained only 12 bullets. As I shot down the zombies I heard Ayn Rand’s annoying voice, unintelligible at times due to her horrid accent, ranting on about how atoms don’t exist because she personally thinks man is a holy creation that cannot really be made out of tiny parts. “Tiny parts forming a whole is a collectivist notion”, she said in my dream, “each part insignificant on its own, but together forming a functioning whole; this simply cannot be! This is the work of rotten Marxist criminals!”

Anyway, back to the subject of sex. Sex is loathsome. Why? Pleasure is loathsome. Emotional or physical fulfilment is loathsome. You do not matter. You make no difference. Your work, your actions, they mean absolutely nothing, you are temporary, insignificant, you have no real impact. Your thoughts and your philosophies, they mean nothing, and all things ever created amount to absolutely nothing. And while I at times wish for better things for the world, for myself, and for all people in the world, I know this is not the way to go; nothing can cure my situations, nothing can correct my bitterness; they tried to put me on anti-depressants, but it did not make me feel any better.I don’t want sex.

I reject sex. I reject existence, all of ours existence, I reject human nature as an evolutionary mistake. Just my personal delusions, you say, just another one of those attention whores, one of those pesky “emo-kids” or whatever, I’m just some “holier-than-thou douche bag”. But I’m not holier than you. I’m a deranged lunatic, I’m a failure in every way imaginable, I’m a transsexual, a cross-dressing wacko, anti-religious psychopathic; and did I tell you that even I sometimes give in to the sick desire for self-satisfaction? We are all rotten. We must be destroyed. We must be cleansed. We are apples full of worms rotting in the summer sun; we are intestines full of worms and deadly micro-organisms; we are disgusting, we deserve no existence.

I reject love, I reject emotions, all emotion deranged fantasies, I see people hugging and being affectionate and I want to destroy, I want to fire up the ovens and I want to burn. Such vitriol, such bigotry, such spiteful ignorance and intolerance I present, and I am so absolutely aware of it. To destroy is much easier than to correct and work out in other ways. It is a simple solution to a problem of such a massive scale and scope that no other solution is even possible for our feeble minds. A race of superior alien intellects could possible do a good job and master us with collars of thorns, but the likelihood of this ever happening is basically zero.

Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy, everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now.

There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’ –Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four