In Advance and Doomed...

In addition to me being breathtakingly absurd in my writing style, I can’t find any reason for not continuing that way.
What is disturbing, in some way or another, is the fact that a lot of the times, I’ve always been ahead of the people around me. I am not referring to a Übermensch style superiority, though that’s again, not out of the question, but what is most striking is that this, I dare say, precociousness, is largely due to one single, primary reason.

Advancement of your age, of other’s expectations, is always a rewarding being which has a character of its own and it could play such tricks on you.
Often something that I’ve just been taught in class is serenaded by the sudden realization that it is already comprehended from a long time ago, even though it may be in some form or another. What matters is that even before I’ve read something, I’ve grasped it in a sort of ghostly manner which seems to already have been inbuilt somewhere inside.

Just as equally as being a great writer, Victor Hugo was also a brilliant artist whose ‘automatic’ artworks are at least a century ahead of their time. A good hundred years following their creation, great artists like Pollock and Dali would experiment with this very same kind of art.
This is the type of advancement that I am referring to, and there is no other way to go about it but simply marvel at this ahead-of-its-time innovation attributed to the greatest of historical figures.

I often keep quiet about it, and it’s only through my creative output, that it streams out into the open air of public entrust.
If I didn’t keep quiet, I would probably end up being a very resented person in the extreme case of confiding this thinking with the people surrounding me.
Just like a nihilist would see no purpose to life, a real human being would see no problem with the ‘deadly’ sin of pride and thus stab with ultimate force, pushing deeper into the flesh of confusion, thereby destroying it.
And I guess, consequently, it’s natural to assume that once this flesh which comprises confusion, has decayed into a useless stinker, then you, and humanity in general, is heading for a carelessly calm stroll around the park.
Hands in pockets, bible somewhere in the pond, getting ravaged by ducks; reproductive organ cold and sterile as Batman’s eyes and a flag, torn apart by the last drains of synaptic activity in your nervous system.
Name, erased by a background noise and memory, wiped away by the ridiculousness of history. Worst of all, passion is dissected from all sides and has become a Zeppelin vomiting masses of helium.
Suddenly, the park has turned into a room-temperature desert, and you’re still strolling and quietly whistling under your nose, staring at the floor.
Congratulations, you’ve officially become a last man.