No one ever thought ironies were particularly cute, yet everyone is fond of them. The idea or irony carries with it a slight pang of self pity that is extremely self-gratifying. A little like masturbation.
Let us personify her. Imagine… no, dream, of a night, so dark that black has bloated up, swelled itself over, milked a little blue from the resting sun, and turned a deep shade of velvet. It is the light of a panther’s coat in moonshine. Imagine a ground of fine dust, silver, but dry and dead. Not harsh on the naked feet, as soft as talcum. Like dust left in vacuum, like the sad white dust of a burnt out cigarette. The dusty ground has monoliths. Tall black structures, reaching into mystical heights, in various structures, convolutions and forms. There are gigantic serpents frozen in a reach for the sky, there are tall statues of heroes and gods, there are the tallest skyscrapers of men, actually invading into the night with their window speckled light. There are blocks and domes and pyramids. There are pillars and henges. Dolmens, dykes and boulders. Everywhere, all around. There are no roads. This is no city. The structures are frozen in time, static, constant and eternal. They represent the same thing. They are all black blocks, taller than wide. And flitting between these structures is a figure. A teasing, laughing figure. A figure that is the only life that can be spotted. A figure that is a real concrete body. A finely chiseled one at that. She could have been a man if it weren’t for the breasts.
And she laughs at you. She is irony. Personified. She haunts and torments you. She courts you, and you fall for her. You begin to live your life according to her rampant wants. You recollect no past that was not ironic. You do not have a history, as a race, or as a human, that is clean of irony. She may be fleeting, but she showers you with paradoxes, entwines you with fate, and devours you with truth. She is the muse for the poetry of your life, your umbrella in the rain of bloodlines, the food for the hungered masses, your refuge in distress. You need her, you want to celebrate her, and she is not even clearly visible to your eyes. You grasp and hold on to every irony you can find, and play with it like a toy, your eyes shine with mischief, and you are satisfied. You are stereotyped, drugged, and castrated by her. She deconstructs you into your bare essentials. She manages to do all of this without personal contact. By being a mere curiosity. She has made you her whore.
You cannot kill beurocracy without paperwork. You sleep uneasily at night knowing that there are monsters under your bed. Monsters that draw you to them. You always expected to spot them one night. You expected them to come out and take you, and you expected to scream out aloud while they dragged you into their dungeons. The monsters exist. They used an advanced technology to capture you every night. They crawl out, and when your eyes are closed, blind fold you with sleep and torture you. Sometimes they forget to wipe your sweat before they send you up. You are jolted awake, still screaming from the torture. The monsters have spread rumors about nightmares, and everybody believes they actually have them. Nightmares are an impossibility. Your own mind would never decide to do something that horrible to you. Because you control your mind right?
Makes you think right? Imagine a propagation of thoughts in your brain. Imagine staying static and not reacting to your thoughts. Imagine sleeping even. One thought leads to another. That leads to a hundred and eight more, and that, beyond a billion. After that, you get more thoughts that google returns hits for a general porn search. That is where all the thoughts merge into one central idea. One thought continuously emerges, fuelled by all your other thoughts, like a river flowing from rivulets. There is just a dam before the open ocean, and at this point you break free. You fly. You degenerate, become a human isolated from society, a free radical. A random, free radical, in primordial life soup.
You just figured something out. You cannot get her. You cannot do anything about her. She continues to tease and torment you. You are a black block too, a statue, a monolith. Static, immobile, and eternal. All you can do is think. Thinking is the only purpose of your existence. Sum ergo cogito. Ah how you can court irony in your thoughts… you no longer want to wait till the crow decides to usher the sun in. Panthers await you in the velvet deep, and you know it is time to sleep. And dream. And explode your brains to little fragments of sin. How you will indulge in ironies in your sleep.
The all loom over her as she continues to play. They are all asleep. She steps into their dreams. They gangrape her, and she too, takes her place amongst the statues.