The Obscure

What child is this? I awake from a 6-month long stupor and find myself back on my parent's kitchen floor, contemplating putting a bullet through my brain to end the ceaseless pain and incessant confusion that is all living seems to bring me.
Standing knee deep in a pile of shattered bones, congealing blood, and other more grotesque unmentionable filths, I wonder to myself, "Was this my doing?" I ask myself, "Did I bring about this despicable devestation?"
I would gladly tear my lips off of my face, I would cheerfully chew them to pieces and swallow them, I would laugh as my body gave involuntary jerks as those immense lances of pain shot through it. I would rub broken shards of glass into my eyes, I would hurl myself into a pit of razor-wire and human shit, I would cut all of the fingers of my right hand off individually with a hacksaw, and I would eat them raw; and I would do all these things with a mad grin on my face.
I have been as a stranger in a strange land. It takes a strange man to face up to his insanities. Behold! I am a son of man.
There is little to be done about it. Truly these are the incongruent ravings of an inferior mind. Why is it that when a family emergency strikes I find myself blaming myself as the soul cause? My father has a bad heart because I have spent the majority of my life as a bad son.
String me up. String me up, I say! String me up and hack out my eyes, hack out my tongue and feed it to the dogs, hack out my entrails and dangle them around my body like a gory christmas tree. Attach car batteries to my teeth and to my genitals, douse me in gasoline and set me aflame. Fire purifies, my friends, and it is only in this way that I can be cleansed.

And if this confuses you, consider yourself blessed. It is far worse to understand it.