Creative Nonfiction: Fuck My Feels

By Charlotte Mazzei

 

[CW: existential crisis, suicide, extinction talk, ED, dysphoria, egodeath, light gore, body horror]

 

I can’t be here, for nostalgia provides such an unearned catharsis; intoxicating reminiscence snuffs the present of its enthralling wiles. My neuron pathways chain the present self to dissatisfaction,  overwhelming disgust that I let the flight of bygone times pass impersonally. I’m drowning in dead faces, despairing and revolting the present, even as now trumps all that was by astronomical factors. 

Are hedonic feedback loops really the highest good, when hygiene and intimacy with one’s own flesh slips into obstacle for optical dopamine? We’re fattened and softened by the infinite treat button of an unfettered, self-replicating network. Community appears absent under suffocatingly large scale. Intangible quantities of souls fill bellies and hearts, lurch the soul with their aspirations and nostalgias. 

We’re in constant pursuit of other people’s childhoods after our own dies. Perhaps the bold move onto the teen years, the young adult years, but the recapturing of new adolescence is so endless in its scope. Life checkpoints moved into optical brevity, into accumulation as development, while our pipe-dreams of real skills are pacified. 

My brain is encased in fat. New paths aren’t burned, opulent properties are built on idled cords. The landowners jump ship just as quickly as they ooze themselves between the wrinkles and folds of our grey matter. We are all so exhausted, so ready to liquidate volition into noise-currency. Meanwhile, the privatization of thoughtonomy to the Mouse-olini family of microplastics sweeps our streets.

I’m incredibly sick, imprisoned in what was and wanting, utterly wanting, to become what I no longer am or want myself to be. Social barriers from authenticity? No, I’ve terrified myself into a corner. Fearmongered my noggin into puerile submission while gawking, blaming the more apparent victims. Fearmongered into formulaic formlessness, uncharacteristic expression beyond fresh and fickle flesh that facades my full flora of fervor.

 I want to puke my flesh off, to pick it off like an insect or a scab, to fade away like scratched dandruff until my body is a humble floating ocular nervous system. Let my meat wax-melt into a puddle for the starving to drink from. Turn me into cutlets so my happy skeleton can watch my succulence become delicious katsu for the peckish birds.

Endless oppression and servitude to the flesh is the guiding principle of each and every primate life, no matter the contents of the skull. We gorge, sleep, sip, slurp, fuck, lust, lurch, love, bleed, heal, piss, shit, leak and succumb. It's all carnal necessity. There is no choice to disobey without loss of function. The flesh must be fattened and lubed, loaf to decompress. It’s a constant cycle of ceaseless maintenance for continued allowance of more menial actions, more banal consumption until joy becomes stain. No degree of idleness halts the hunger of form. Sleep unto rot. We endlessly lose consciousness to the gluttonies and greeds of fleshly inclinations. We obsess over flesh, see only flesh, are tortured by flesh and suffer by our flesh. Flesh is an agonizing contradiction, a meat-locker prisoner satiated by pretty lights.

I am disgusted with putrefying functions. I wish to discard my organs, please. How much for a phantom arm? An opaque leg? I wish to be a desexualized miasma of the senses. Let me spit until my weight is that of helium. Let me burn this useless oil evolution deemed my blanket. Let it burn in beautiful hues in a warming lamp. Let me open a gash and find an abundance of spermaceti and warm wax has mysteriously flooded my gearbox of organs. No more sensory snacks but lipidical cream-fondling. Let me play with my hot-dog body and form candles from my innards, put it in a bowl for others to sip like warm chowder. Let it fall through me. Let all this biomatter I stuff myself with fall through me as if my innards were ectoplasm. Let my form fall off the bone like a well-cooked plate of ribs. Rid me of my ape-shaped pigness. 

Let me be floating thoughts; horny, thirsty floating thoughts that fuck each-others philosophies, that soak humbly in a pristine pearlescent pool. Let me gracefully slither through the primordial waters I’m barred entry from like a spectral dolphin; an elastic, electric jellyfish made of steams and vapours. Liberate my mind from this clockwork heart and sausage-cased puppet, from the droned-on headaches and stuffy noses. Let it terminate itself into unquestioned oblivion when it decides it’s done.

Do not lose the beautiful self to anything but the self. Let love live, let life exist, not for anything but boundless artistic and sexual passion undetermined by capital and social pressures. Stimulate the nerves without the domination of flesh’s loyal fingers.

Stuff me with carcinogens. My blood is Red 40, glitter and tar. After the tumours walk away, I’ll be an aurora borealis of lit-up nerves, twinkling with sensory delight. Let the nerves float, constantly reconstruct and touch themselves. Feeling is divine, feeling is sublime. Emotion, the controlled uncontrollable, beauty through psychological diversity and uniqueness.

 Emotion is so fucking beautiful, man.

 My heart is wrought with feels. Let me feel everything all at once. Detach me from temporality, all the shoves, hormones, stupors and despairs. Bombard me until I moan extra-temporally, pure feels rippling through the blood until tears spill, piss trickles and skin creases. A state of perpetual feels, detached from positivity or negativity when conjoined. Drown me in the glory of life, in cochleal candies and colour palettes and petite felt, smelt treats, the little souvenirs of terrible years. Our flesh bars us from hormonal chaos. 

Perpetual form-death is what reigns life’s beast. Self-destruct until you become unimposed, uncompromised, unboxed. Shed the dead skin cells injecting pufferfish poisons into your mind. Our evil little quarks and curls are out for our wants, deciding our desired form. Fuck those guys! Replace them with berries plump with beauty juice, adorned in sweaters with heart-shaped sleeves. Love doesn’t have to be so fucking distant. Let love happen. Let connection feel real and constant. Only from love and chaos stem potent, unbridled feels. The touching of flesh as I fade into us, carnal selves made carnal self. We’re all amniotic OJ deep down.

We fuck into unity, love into resonance. We rumble in the belly of an acoustic guitar tickled by the fingers of a skilled auteur. Let my heart hum the notes of romance. Fuck my feels, not my flesh. Split my cerebral hemispheres with thine meat-blade. My brain is your warming sheath. Feel the tingle of my electric kinetics, my static-shock blazed thoughts. Fuck the spectral soul of intelligence. Love my kinetic matter as it tingles with profound philosophies, fireflies patterned after argyle mathematics and angular curvatures. Fuck my reading books on a breezy day. Fuck my long walks through a foggy coastal city. Fuck my idyllic reveries, my cotton-candy dreams. Feel the nerves tingle with the pleasure they give me. 

Fuck my brain until it splits in half, an apple cracked into two, it’s sweet flesh cool and crisp as you sink your lovely teeth in. Taste the sweetness of my mind. Rub your tongue through my prickly trench-folds. Swallow my delight as I shutter down your loving saliva. Feel my emotions creep down your esophagus. Consume my exuberance like a soft-flesh peach until its wooden pearl comes loose. 

The brain will sing its final orchestra, soaking up the semen seeded with profound spermatozoa, with pure sensory luster and intellectual fluorescence. It’s hot to the touch, steaming. Each wrinkle a sterile neon-basked alleyway flooded with your milky ooze, exuding carnal and social life within its unobservable patterns and god-carved ruptures. 

Peel back the flesh and witness the cavalcade of sensory-overloaded neurons burning their pleasures onto CDs, thousands of unlabeled emotions bloom into being and flick their own fulcrum in an organized dance number. It’s absolute delight, this uterine warm blanket that our minds are capable of when the spectral self is unsheathed from our pink paunchy prison of order and wounds.

I pray death akin to this fucking. The creamy black-milk of  oblivion inseminates my feels to tuck them in unto sensory sleep. Fuck my dreams with eternal vanishing. The absolute pleasure of being liberated from all tasks and desires. All needs met by fate. All those thoughts you’ve built up release themselves in a resplendent final display of rainbow hues and ribbons. They perform their swan-song on the stage of ebony fluid, an endless sensory inkblot. 

Black matter is a sweet, tarry candy. An endless glass of sweetmilk, mouth never drying by nutty hints of berries and caramel. The tasty sap of death is the sweetest taste to ever coat your spectral tongue, a life entombed in gustatory comfort. No more thirst or hunger. I can starve without pain now, swim in the sweetwater of semiotic ravens. I long to melt away in the ink, spectral body bathed in paint thinner, a chocolate on my tongue, until bliss blots frets and fears.

These fears are not ours. They were unconsensually sowed via relentless barrage by worrywort talking heads and starving idealists trapped in the frustrating combat of binary opposition. We are locked out of manifesting Eden and identity by pastisms, gladiatorials and noise-machines. Dip our moist little marble of verdures and clouds into the black milk. Let it float through oblivion as it has before us. Melt our bodies, not to slaughter, but to free us from our flesh. 

Let all the bright and loving souls discard the barriers between reverie and realism. Let the collective hearts pour out into a pheromonal ocean. Let us play in the adipocere, revel the cthulucene, hug our nerve-haunches and fuck into an aspen-root of Christmas lights nervous systems. Watch them blink in self-discoveries that reservations, taboos, contemptions, structures, formulas and gatekeeping kept us from understanding for thousands of meatbound years. 

Let’s splash in the amniotic paint until our shared humanity swirls into the gleaning aesthetics singularly inconceivable. We’ll be our own constellations, paint the sky gloriously furiously incandescent, so grossly beautiful that we puke out emotional outpourings and hormonal secretions. Let us spill out cute chemicals and aphrodisiacs of adornment. Let’s live, feel and fuck our hearts out in the warm fluid. We’ll pass between the chaotic forms of dreams, orgasms and oblivion. 

Let us never know absence or insularity. Let us not desire beyond that for continuation. Our gaseous, nervous jellyfish will perpetually sting each other with hedon treats. Our mouths can go silent, our sloppy fat worms no longer muddling in saliva, forming hedged words that don’t mean what they intend. They’ll be no “faggot”, “freak”, “weirdo”, “creep”. We’ll understand in good faith without having to read and be read off our bloated, corpulent writhing meat-balloons. We’ll speak in tongueless pleasure-languages, passing emotions like cigarettes through nuanced vibrations in the blackmilk. We’ll fuck instead of convincing to believe, unbridled by the fears of penetration, of hurting, scaring, dominating or carnal, rapey desire. We will live in perpetual orgy of minds, our neuron paths extending each other into the grand thought. 

The one thought. The Mobius strip of absolute truth constructed from 8 billion heads worth of sing-song neurons. So beautiful with the song be. A divine buzz unrestricted by the shape of the throat or the speech patterns we’re damned by. We will sing in the most beautiful voice imaginable, unshackled from hard-stuck pitch or tones. No note will be out of our range, no melody too strenuous. And too will it dance. Not impeded by flailing limbs, not slowed down by overheated heart or exhaustion. We will dance fervently across dimensions and time, become space, take the shape of the vibrations of feel, sloppy drunk off libations of zeal.

Let’s fucking live, let’s fucking laugh, let’s fucking love. Let’s bang and sing and dance and witness collective beauty. One heart of one human community. Listen to it beat in perfect synchrony, with the rhythm of the night and the songs of the sun. Let’s hold tight, have deep conversations and swim in pools of serotonin and tea.

Fuck these phallic obelisks we dance around, fuck these institutions which mold our flesh like clay to their commodified will, fuck these haze-baked arguments making depression of love. I just want to feel a pinch of sincerity, to live without paywalls on every sector of continuance, to work without exploitation, to care without heartstrings tugged by raping, wrinkled fingers. I want to sing our song, dance our dance, fuck our thoughts and live our dreams. Just not theirs. Not “mine”. Unprivatize art, body and dreams.

 I want to live a free life and die my own death, not serving for ownership of my oscillating flesh. I just want some good rest, want everyone to dream sweetly, but we keep traumatizing ourselves into nightmares, keep judging, naming and scaring the shit out of each other. Is it too much to ask to care in dressing our own wounds? Stop feeding the news stream, the mainstream and any stream other than the trickles of Earth and the treacles of love.

 A toast to life lived on raw volition. It takes guts, guts we’ve had stigmatized. Our entrails tragically are filled with cowardly worms. They writhe when threatened or unfed, punish us if we don’t answer their obscure, self-destructive questions. Let’s cut these worms heads off, guillotine them into deli meat. 

I’m tired. I can’t ask any longer. Let me fuck my feels and be my heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Charlotte Mazzeiis an emerging writer and collection of ink-vomiting meat-cubes.