Eternity is a concept that can only be afforded by those who haven’t smelled tissue decomposing under the rain. We believe posterity is clean marble, but the reality is that the future is a mountain of plastic and organic remains where the mechanism of history has become jammed. Writing in the mud is not a romantic choice; it is the acceptance that our biological archive will end up mixed with a discarded yogurt wrapper. There is no possible suture for that wound of class and existence.
I notice a persistent throbbing behind my left eye. A pulse without rhythm, a fatigue of the nerve reminding me that my own mechanism is processing this information while the air in the room becomes dense, heavy with a dust that seems to come from all the books no one ever opened again. I wonder if other organisms feel this inertia toward the ground, or if it’s just me noting how gravity is winning the match through pure exhaustion of the material.
The Saturation of the Object: When Trash Reads Us
We live surrounded by a saturation of things that do not die. Plastic is the only corpse that knows no rigor mortis; it is a mechanical flight from death itself. In the dumpsters of Agbogbloshie, children burn cables to extract copper—a surgical inscription of the global economy onto their lungs. There, writing is not done with ink, but with the trace of combustion. It is a daily autopsy of progress.
Mental health is a luxury for those who can throw things away without looking back. A varnish to avoid seeing the inertia of waste.
I’ve stopped feeling the tips of my fingers. A cold fatigue. The keyboard is sticky from a coffee spilled yesterday that I’ve decided not to clean. It is my own geological stratum, an accumulation mechanism that makes me feel closer to the truth than any tidy bookshelf.
The Stimulus of the Abject: Thinking from the Sludge
Writing from waste is a direct stimulus to the most primitive part of our biological archive. There is no room for elegant metaphor when the tissue is surrounded by what society has decided to amputate. The clinical hallucination of permanence breaks upon seeing a manuscript dissolve in the mud, returning to fiber, becoming part of an inertia that does not need us.
What remains when language becomes stained? The infrastructure of the scream remains. A defense mechanism that does not seek eternity, but immediate contact—the friction of the now before saturation covers it all. Eternity is a scam; trash is the only thing that truly outlives us.
