A pig. In a cage. On antibiotics.
Thom Yorke is a freakish legend of a man.
A man gifted with the subtle sort of genius which can only come, so naturally, from the most severely deranged.
A lyrical trapeze artist.
Swinging off syllables like they were silver ladders glistening high in the murk of the midnight sky.
Then climbing higher, chasing the moon, until he can taste the stale thin air of the upper atmosphere, amid a backdrop of stars and silent nothingness.
A man I owe much to.
Because realizing you’re not God is something too few of us ever forget how to do.
Anti-Existentialism is drummed into you like a corroded railroad spike, at optimum horizontal velocity, from a very early age.
Religion throws itself upon you like a werewolf in the forest.
And the soul is cleansed of all real possibility by the immediate influx of “answers” to life’s “questions”.
Why revise for the test when you already have the answers?
And life is lost, to narrow minded ignorance, by people who can’t muster a reaction when the yearly International Religious Population figures are waved in their faces by the lunatics at the carnival.
The overriding fact is that only 22.82% of the world’s known population even agrees on what has unfolded in front of us, for all of our existence, like some sort of intricately engraved, chrome plated, alien chrysanthemum.
Nobody, really, has a fucking clue.
And buried deeply below the four major belief systems, there are huge riptides of intelligent people who believe, truly and deeply, in the sort of stomach churning self-gratification that proper citizens have been programmed to be incapable of even dreaming about.
When the high-powered search lights in our souls are turned off, and the call goes up to head back to shore, the Self is left at sea, to sink, to rot, and be eaten by weird fishes.
But let’s not make this attack personal; we are all cunts of the highest order.
It’s just that some cunts get close to the stars, whilst others barely stir from their slumber.
To quote the mighty Thom:
Calm, fitter, healthier and more productive.
A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.
There is nothing more historically significant, personally speaking, than realizing that you have, quite literally, no-fucking-idea, whatsoever, about anything.
And neither does anyone else.
There is an empowering back-draft which blows past your face, like the last warming winds of an atomic blast, a few nanoseconds after reaching this sort of conclusion.
But realizing you’re not God is something too few of us ever forget how to do.
Lest the skies open and the Gods repent.
And hail to Thee.