FSE

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SESSION 3

Nihilistic optimists, burning cats and the authors of reality

Client: C. L. S. Age: 20

Another Thursday, another session.

Okay.

Would you describe yourself as an optimist or a pessimist?

I'm an optimist. And a nihilist. An optimistic nihilist.

I'm a nihilist, because I know that nothing's worth anything. Nothing has value. Nothing you do will have a lasting effect on whatever the universe has set out to do long before you were even born.

What's important to you means shit for others. Rules are just the opinions of the strong to keep the weak in check and morals are only whims people rationalize and then glorify.

And I'm an optimist, because I realize that this void of meaning, this ground zero of purpose, this scheme of rules invites us to explore what we're capable of.

The pessimist is capable of nothing and he takes pride in that. He's glad that arbitrary rules and vapid traditions trap him in his masochistic mental dungeon. He's happy that the world tells him "You can't do this" and "That's not a good thing, so stop it", because otherwise he'd be completely lost. He loves being stepped on and being used as a rag for society.

And in the end he hurls himself from a bridge to seal his contract with this world. Because he was a good slave, he did just enough and now cleans himself up to make room for the next best pup that needs pills to get through the day.

The optimist however acknowledges this void and realizes his freedom to fill it with whatever satisfies his whims. He doesn't ponder over what's right and correct. He doesn't care. He just acts. Nothing is right and so everything is.

What's forbidden simply calls for being satisfied.

Who says people have value?

They don't. They're just tolerated. I tolerate them as much or as little as I like, depending on my current mood.

That possum who cleans the glass door downstairs. He's worth shit. I could just go over and bite his throat. He'd be a nice bloody rag.

But I don't do it, because he's not worth me going over there and getting my shirt dirty with his smelly blood. Even pondering over whether to kill him or not grants him much more value than he has.

So I try to stop thinking and ignore him.

But if he's ever in my way or if his filthy elbow touches me or if he leaves a puddle of water on the floor I happen to step into, I'll kill him. I'd bite his face of to examine how he looks like under his skin. Because then I start to think about how he'd look like dead. How he'd best die and I attribute value to this decision, because it satisfies me.

Have you ever acted upon these moods? For example, have you ever harmed or killed an animal?

Depends on what you mean by "killed".

I took some of them apart. Because I wanted to know how they work and how they look like from the inside.

I'm naturally a curious person, but there's only so much that can pique my interest.

But you can only spread them open to some degree. After a certain point they don't really work all that well anymore. That somewhat annoys me, actually.

I once had a pet cat. I found it on a junkyard and it maundered towards me and I adopted it.

There was some junk I set on fire. Because I fucking love fire.

Then I thought it would be interesting to put the cat into it. The cat didn't like it all that much. It was actually kinda angry about it.

And I put a stick into its eye socket to pin it down.

I watched it squirm and burn.

It was fascinating. The smell was terrible, but it got better after some time.

I've never seen a cat without fur. It looked so different after it had burned down. The skin, waving, blistering, turning black, it looked like tar. It was an intriguing, eerie sight, yet really beautiful.

And I actually thanked the cat afterwards. I said "Thank you Mr. Cat", because it gave me something new to think about. Something I hadn't seen before. Something interesting and worthwhile.

That doesn't happen all that often.

It made me think about what animals are.

There's a stomach and some guts, digesting whatever the mouth puts into them.

Simple enough.

There's a nose and eyes to look for anything that fits into the mouth.

Then you have legs to move the whole thing around and a brain to decide what's good for the stomach and what not. That's basically it.

It's curious, isn't it?

A walking, eating flesh machine that just does its thing, because it has to.

And it would do it ad perpetuum, if the whole thing wasn't designed so badly that it starts to fall apart after some years.

Hence it needs that whole reproductive shit attached to it in order to create imperfect clones of itself that then can continue to stumble around to eat shit.

I believe it's some kind of joke. But people don't get it. They look at these things as if they're miracles, but they're actually just roly-polies shambling around in the most inefficient and fethisized way imaginable.

One of them shuffles around a junkyard. Another you give a silly hat and call it window cleaner.

It seems like you are not acknowledging that the creatures around you have agency.

Your comprehension is astonishing. It's difficult to contain my amazement.

Correct, they don't have agency. Neither animals nor people.

They just do what they're told and they might even end up believing that they did it from their own volition.

It's like being at the theater. I've been there for most of my life. Have watched people being told how to play act what they think and feel.

The goal is to act as if the script is true.

No, more, as if the script is truer than truth itself. It's meta-true, because people actively ignore the reality that surrounds them to abide by the wants of the script and its mythos. It creates a world that alleviates itself above whatever reality it was created in and yet surpasses it, twists laws and rewrites them, just like it rewrites people and whatever they once wanted. They're erased.

If people play act they become the new, the different, the character, the words, the ideas and they're molded by the author, the god of that liquid world.

People are the characters and they act like you want them to act. They embody your wants and they taste your blood.

Then they finally can have a purpose and meaning. They can be agents for your story.

But most people cannot act for shit. Not because they're bad actors, but because they're bad agents. They don't fully understand the script.

They just shamble.

People who actually do have agency are exceptionally rare, but you can spot them right away.

You can smell them. There's something about them ... I'm actually not sure if it's something they have or something they lack.

Shit, that's kinda bugging me now ...

I guess they're not acting at all. They're not part of a script, neither a script written in reality nor in meta-reality.

And they know it. That makes them powerful. That makes them potential authors. Others can only read, but they are able to write. Rewrite anything. Everything.

They're the optimists. The ones who don't abide by the laws they were given. They're the destroyers of law, of truth. They don't stop and they don't abide by politeness or ethics or morals or decency or whatever sham erected to keep them in check.

They have the power to bring down reality, this whole sucking, sickening piece of shit. This world or society or people or however you want to call it.

And the world waits for the stage they'll create. For their story that destroys all stories.

There's this raccoon and he's special. I knew it when I first saw him. He's aware of the joke, but he hasn't fully understood the punch line yet.

And he smells nice.

It's a rare thing to smell something good. Most of the time I'm inclined to claw off my own nose. A smoke usually helps. Makes my olfactory system go numb.

Now that I mention it ...

It is not permitted to smoke inside this building.

... too bad for you.

Throw me out if you don't like it.

But then Julius won't be happy. You're supposed to listen to me and he pays you.

He also pays you for keeping me away from him for at least some hours per week. You should talk to him if you have a problem.

It is not about me. The Code of Conduct prohibits it.

And we ought to follow these stupid rules, aren't we? Makes you feel secure to be told what to tell others, doesn't it?

Anyway it's not my problem either way.

Where was I? ... Oh yeah ...

The raccoon and his smell.

His jizz smells nice, too. I really like how it feels on my fur.

Do you like jizz?

You don't look like you do. I can smell that you're completely dry down there. Stupid dog nose. No luck with the guys, huh?

Maybe it's because you're ugly.

I don't mean it in a judgmental way, you know. I'm just honest and you're ugly.

Don't worry, though. Most people are ugly.

Anyway ... Are the notes you're taking important little checks on the crazy list? How am I scoring?

Psycho? No, I don't fit the criteria for being one, right.

Maybe a narcissistic, yeah?

Or is it just your shopping list? That would be efficient.

You can listen to the revelations of the dogman while thinking about which brand of tampons to buy. Or which wine. Nah, you're not drinking, right.

Write down some condoms too. You need to go out and get a dick down there. It'll be good for you, seriously.

I take note of reappearing themes that might be important.

What happy themes have you found thus far?

That you like to tell stories and that you are not finished yet.

You're a sneaky cunt, you know that. What else?

My task is to listen and to ask occasional questions.

And I could go watch a movie if you're starting to bore me.

What have you written on that silly notepad?

You know I could just walk over, punch you in the face and take it, if I feel like it.

Don't make me consider.

... I see that you enjoy arguing effortlessly and that you like to build stories that consist of glaring contradictions, probably not because you are trying to find out what is actually true, but because you like to take apart every concept you get in contact with.

Maybe deconstructing ideas satisfies your need for acknowledgement and allows you to give the impression that you offer valuable insights.

You can share these elaborate ideas without ever needing to formulate a coherent or self-reliant concept and instead can be satisfied with just taking down whatever you are confronted with.

It might be a way of gratifying your need to feel grandiose and to be treated special.

But I think it is deeper than that.

Maybe breaking down every idea until their parts become nonsensical or even absurd if you then rearrange them validates your disdain for truth itself. This way you are able to make the case that the world does not work and cannot work, which provides reassurance that nothing you do has actual consequences and that nothing about yourself is problematic.

Or it reassures you that what you do might even be a sensible action against the wrong workings of the world you propose and despise -- which consequently makes you the sole arbiter of how the world should work.

I also get the feeling that you are not arguing about these things because you actually believe in them, but because they are useful tools to undermine any sense of correctness or order that cannot exist in the model you are trying to create, further allowing you to take whatever stance or action you deem useful or simply enjoyable without any consideration for its appropriateness or any ethical or hierarchical quality.

Uh, did I just sense your little peephole getting wet while taking big words into your mouth like the big cock you haven't had for a long time?

Maybe the reason for you casually taking apart whatever norm or order you are confronted with was birthed in an event that destroyed something you once believed to be true. An event that not only shook your understanding of something you held dear, something that was part of your core beliefs, but that damaged what you once imagined yourself to have been.

And there has not yet been a way to rectify this problem, hence stories are a means to create a veneer that hides the reality that cannot be fixed.

Stories are made real to in turn let reality become absurd and a "joke" -- which again validates you as the "author" demanded to rewrite this world.

... I believe you just made me wet. How can we fix that issue?

You will tell me about the first story. The origin story that turned the universe into what it is today.

I would like to hear it.

We'll have a very intimate relationship then. Get some wine and turn off the lights.

I'd love to tell it. Trust me, it's glorious.

Judgment pending.

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© 2018, Kranich im Exil

::www.furaffinity.net/user/kranich-im-exil ::