A Faint Coffin of Scents - Of Photon Aggregates

Of Photon Aggregates : A reflection on light
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[The second page is covered in grey notes and drawings. I could barely guess the outlines of a Feynman diagram. Across the text and images, a red pencil line marks a frontier with the rest of the file, which is not what has been announced. There's no thesis on light, here, or rather not in the way it was expected. Written in another hand, ink, state of mind, and world, the rest is a collection of messages from a beloved woman I never quite knew and whose personality I could never plainly grasp, which is the case for every existing human being, including yourself. The following is a transcript of the (assumed) last texts written by Rainy Meredit.

L. Waker]

Rainy Meredit : last words
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Hi, beast. Released me? I know it's temporary. You want me to enjoy myself for the ultimate moment of semi-sanity that's left? That's good. I want to write down a few more things.
Very decent of you to create some space, some distance between us for a tiny while.

...
Hello, reader.
You might be out of food.
If you want to devour my words, be aware that they might be hard to digest.

It's frightening to find yourself on the verge of twenty and want to throw up just thinking about the number of things you've already messed up, considering the equivalent proportion of things you will invariably mess up in the future, that is, if you don't mess up so big that you lose the chance to have a lot of future and to later realize that you've had quite a bit of that future on the palm of your hand and that the majority of it is getting bored rather than failing, which is in itself an even bigger failing, and that is when you stop getting bored that you find yourself writing obsessively about the tiniest little thing, filling your mind with mindless details just to prove a point you hallucinated and then the spin is so hard that you cling to the words like they can be important to another human, ever, so that you have a link, but it's a made up link and you are lucid about the whole thing, but it still works, and it never stops being the right thing to do, and I may or may not have an interesting thing yet to write, but I'll write, for all the blood that's deserted me and the fungal things and the folliage of me and the roots instead of veins that I get for want of a more flesh-like me, but still maybe a bit better than the flesh person I used to be, although you spent most of the time not feeling made of flesh, but of some derivative of plastic, and often not even that, because you don't have to realize that you exist, the brain doesn't need that to work its way across life, however messed up it turns out to be, and now I'll write for all I have become and all I will left, for the creature I'll show to anyone or maybe no one but the crual, crude light and forgive me but my self has been made more important to me than you'll ever be, fictitious or not, reader, go away if you feel like throwing up yourself, you have a self to attend to, a self of flesh, or maybe not if you were as lucky as I've been, but that's still the good thing to attend to while you still can, and now for something completely naked, some truth I've been regurgitating incessantly for the last few days, memories and thoughts, ideas tasting better than the things I used to consume, pies and stuff, oranges, all fruits made nothing against a mouthful of abstracts o, how I love abstracts attract me my abstracts to bring me closer to this and now and now and now and now and now repetition made friends again like androids pursuing the true experience of life, when life isn't about learning and change but about the repetition of the exact same failure without the grasp that comes with understanding them, you can vaguely recall but never digest the failures well enough to avoid future mistake and they always leak out of your skin and your flesh, except when, like me now, you don't have any of that subsisting, but you, I, still have failures though barely significant ones and mashed blueberries of thoughts left to rot away in the brisk, sinuous winds of slowly melting light and YOU read me die away and smile inwardly because voyeurism will only bring you satisfaction until you yourself face failure and loss again as you'd lose your mind in a perfectly sane environment, for the sane isn't made forthe human, the human mind feeds off the insane and the putrefied, devastated ruins of perfect abstracts, or even concretes.

I put a dot, there, and then one. more. and more and. more . ... and took a breath with.. .each dot . and felt better.

With the nagging need to write, I will keep going right now.
Who cares about clarity when clarity isn't a friend?

From where I stand/cling/crawl/rest, the veil pierced by lights in vain reaching for a face that's already decayed into photons, spontaneous annihilation.

I regard life through the translucid walls of a faint coffin of scents.
AfaintCoffinOfScents, AFCOS, my home like nowhere can be.
Aftereffects of the strangest medication gaining powers on my brain cells inside my cell rotting in peace, but no peace of mind coming while I have things to write.

The diary rejects me with all its might, the tip of my pencil disapproved by the pages, but I still insist.

Asap they say, like soon is actually better and it might be, but maybe I'm not exactly saying asap but something deeper articulated not badly, but too intensely, too fully clear. But I can only hear asap, not anything else.

The collapse and me the collapse and it the collapse and that collapse only with me holding hands it doesn't hurt but itspainfulhelppleasesomeone
sorryreaderbutitsthepain
thepaintalkingandIlove
youreaderpleasebe
theradarreaderradarradar
therereadereadereadereader
deardeardeardeardear
mydearreader
my dear radar

It's night again

I think

I feel better

I think

I think I can still think properly... partially

At times, I still can...

I know it's agony

And I doubt, I truly doubt

that agonies are always alleviated

Goodbye

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Yours, partially...

Rainy Meredit