Anxociety (2010)

Romanian Institute of Culture and Humanistic Research, May 2014

Anxociety is the ostensible coherence of an endless and clueless void. It is the concrete structure produced by dionysiac beings, it is the leading of reason and control amongst the others, caused by the imposibility of a milimetric degree of organization at the absolute level of the onthology. It is the unavoidable politicizing of the subjective through the denial of the human abjection. It is the claim of understanding a microscopic, transparent and ephemeral existence, reporting it in a large scale. It is the critique that the insect outside the treasure hill is transposing into drawly slogans, so that later, after a light year, her little ant hill next to it, has been already self-destroyed for a few billion times. It is the fusion between beauty and grotesque, in an exhausting struggle of the eye lashes. It is the brutality behind sensuality and the revolting darkness behind ethics. It is the acceptance of denial, which we praise every day, in the mornings and the evenings. It is an escalator leading to ruin, which is always renovating, self-destroying with obstinacy, constantly and rarely variating, which lately introduces herself as the goddess of lack, with a cordial grimace. It is a nurse in a crypt of the mentally ill, rasping her nails and rolling her eyes back when on the security camera one would be able to find the stopping of a pacient's breath. It is a common grave of the brilliant synapses short-circuited by chinese water torture. It is the post-apocalyptic post-suicide of the post-postmodernist post-philosophy. It is the satin curtain of the barricade and of the inquisition, which is almost fallen. It is an antidepressive potion, regurgitated into an ecological toilet, as a consequence of a lucid dream. It is the catastrophic materialization of an erroneous programming of a robotic Cupid, who suffers from the most coward form of autism and the most conceited form of locomotor handicap. It is the look of a five year old child behind the starched curtain, an hour after he skipped kindergarden classes. It is the face of another five year old child behind the starched curtain, after he saw his mom suffocating his sister. It is a dying pig on the same day a certain guy named God is born and he's giving a high five in heaven to the lamb that dies the same day He does. It is a simple but false little song about Hiroshima, some lungs filled with glue, a proud flag and 12 billion fingerprints. It is a super matrimonial, unconventional and inspirational, 1000% bio offer. It is a proto-death sweetened by team spirit, ambition, comunication abilities and the highest success rates. It is a sardonic symphony of blind clowns and violin creaks. It is an obese silk worm in an eggshell. It is a masoquist army of impure puritans. It is the dialectic of those who, tragically, can't break enough bricks. It is the last chance to be examined for the newest optional course, life. It is the implosion of the minuscule orchid that grew up on the walls of the barrel organ that you were hitting from time to time with your onyrical yoyo in your parallel, but oh so obtuse, world made out of burnt sugar. It is an open gash that resembles to the monstruous lack of interrogation. It is the chamber of the wishes born when you were a teenager. It is the tomb filled with jelly, golden fishes and mud cakes. It is the reform of seraphic clones who trip each other. It is the tiger that ate all the lovers and now he's writing his name on every fence. It is the tabloid of the castaways. It is the renewed version of the genocide synthetized into a giant shaft dancing tango with a tsunami. It is the hate embed in the social status of the universe. It is the broken wing of Faust, a minor accident at the carousel. It is the feeling that you're starting to hate love and to love hate.