Thursday, April 30, 2015

On American Gods.

I'm currently reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman. The book is great so far, and I recommend it. I've read a few of Neil’s books (The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Coraline) so I knew that I’d be walking into a world where fantasy, myth and horror could play a role. I really like the world’s set-up: any god, myth or legend that’s been worshipped and believed in comes into being. And as communities came to the new world, they brought with them their old gods. These old gods became forgotten, and ignored, and live amongst us the best they can, surviving the best they can. Our modern world brings a type of degenerate worship, the media, the internet, gaming, instant gratification, and so “new gods” are now also amongst us, and they have little to no respect for the gods that came before them.

This had me thinking about the gods that might rule my life. These incarnations of gluttony, of self-hatred and depression. What does the demon behind depression look like? I imagine a black sinewy cloud, that grows in thickness and opacity as it surrounds me. I hear whispers, they talk about me and all of my faults. I imagine a large leech, attached to me as I sleep, rendering my rest useless and taking from me whatever automates a life. I see a veil between me and the world. A veil that pulses from my own chest, an implanted shackle existing only for me.

What of anxiety? I imaging full-black eyes (think Robert Durst, lol) that twitch. I hear a high-frequency screeching that’s barely audible but that ebbs and flows, driving me to swat at my ears. I see cages monkeys, shrieking and jumping from cage-wall to cage-wall. I see a face in a plastic bag, gasping desperately for air.

What do you sacrifice to the god of depression? It seems obvious, doesn't it? Time. It’s what he takes. Your time becomes his time, and he grows fat with it. I've lost so much of it. Whole segments of my life that hold no real memory outside of haze. Rough time periods outlined only by occasional happenings. So much time, so much un-lived life. The seed of possibility slowly, painfully plucked out of me and as if part of some sadistic ritual, I'm made to watch as it disintegrates and blows away.

On some days I feel strong, a stubborn fire inside me burns, fuelled by my resentment and anger. Fuck those gods. I scream that internally, toward the void of existence. Fuck you, gods. I mock you and your raison-d'etre. Nothing is of you. You’re made up of others. My dependence on others is rooted in caring. There is sweetness there. Fuck you, false-gods. When I survive you, a part of me laughs doggedly. Ridicule. I hope it shames you. Hope. I imagine that shames you as well. You are a twat, a real douche. Maybe I’ll imagine you at a dance-club, surrounded by the vapid and the spoiled. You’d be annoyed. That amuses me. False eyelashes and spray tans. Hair gel and male-ego. Forced baby-voices and rich parents. Maybe your demon is Paris Hilton. If that’s the case, I’ll pray to her.

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