Preface to an Imaginary Book So this is the secret narrative.

1 Much like a diary, though leaning more towards efforts at selfexamination and a general cleansing of the mind which is done simply by telling or writing that which has been bothering the author for a long time. The aim of this narrative therefore is established thus, and the hope of the author is for him to maintain the necessary interest and energy for it. This narrative shall be the most honest and most searing out of all that the author has written so far in his life (which we shall not label as 'pathetic' for the sole reason that he has so often done this in the past that it simply has gone stale and repetitive, and if there's one thing he's trying so hard to do right at this present moment, it is to avoid going in circles again in his head, not that it's a bad thing, it's just an unwanted situation.) In every narrative, or in any plans for a good and huge narrative, it's always necessary to be ambitious. Let the author be so ambitious that he feels like he is suffocating or unable to surmount that imaginary obstacle which he has set-up for himself. This is good, to borrow Nietzsche's idea regarding those things that do not kill you and simply makes you stronger. Extreme honesty here is necessary, though of course, only those things which are interesting enough to merit the author's attention will be written. Writing is a highly psychological thing. And this is a narrative which is an example of that. There will be a lot of musings here regarding writing and thinking, and thinking about writing, and writing about thinking, etc. There will be discussions here about things which pertain to diseases of the mind. About things that the author thinks he has, such as depression and bipolar disorder and general anxiety disorder as well as having an avoidant personality, among other interesting and wonderful things. In ancient stories and legends, specifically in Middle Eastern religious writings and poems and songs, as well as the stories and epics in Greek and Roman Mythologies, maybe even in the author's own Southeast Asian culture, it is customary to seek help from some deity in order that the telling of the story might be accurate, or that the strength of the author or storyteller may not flag while the narrative is being divulged. In here what shall pass for this will be a song from an American anarcho-punk/ska band active during the nineties which the author has recently discovered. The title of the song is 'Fucked Reality.':
Fucked Reality by Choking Victim It feels like jesus on the cross. It's so religious in it's loss: A graven image in the mud, like when I shed my precious blood. I am a loser, I am satan, I am jesus christ, I'm me. There are no winners in this fucked reality. [x2] Atrophic interludes weave through my life far too often for me to fight the biggest enemies. I have no feelings, like love or pain, it makes me go insane when I see what's happening to me... I say:

1 Here, I am using the technical term 'narrative' because I am much too unsure as to what to label this work. Given that the word narrative is able to encompass a whole host of different kinds of writings, I will be using this here then. Kapish?

I am a loser, I am satan, I am jesus christ, I'm me. There are no winnners in this fucked reality. [x2] There are no idols, no heroes in a world of death. It's all a joke and so are you, and so am I... think? just look and see... It's a fucked reality. [x4]

I have no deities to call on my behalf. There are no Gods, there is only the here and the now and the great and mind-warping eternities before and beyond. Even I am now starting to doubt the actuality of a present. It's that old philosophical question as to how long does the present last, when does it become the past, and what exactly is a future. With regards to the future, I am not even thinking about it. I fear it much like that feeling I had once looking at this video in the internet of a large dark hole deep in the middle of the ocean where all sorts of unholy creatures might live and eat each other. In my head I am fantasizing about that now-ness which is said to be the characteristic of all those happy animals such as cows and pigs and cats and dogs. They do not worry see, because they live in the present. These animals live in the eternal present. Whereas human beings worry and are miserable because of the awareness that besides the present, there also was a past, and that there will be the future which is uncertain and dark and mysterious, that dark underwater black hole I was describing earlier. Maybe there is a deity, a God which controls time. I remember now this God, Kanlaon, one of the ancient deities of these people in the Philippines where I am now. Maybe I should call upon Kanlaon, the time God, to intervene on my behalf, guide me in this narrative that it may be acceptable to eyes besides mine, that it may make sense at least to them, and that it provides something useful to the world.

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