Cheers and a Chug For…
We are now almost two weeks away from premeditated regret. Isn’t that quite the oxymoron? But let me assure you, the thing exists: deep in the belly of the beast, or perhaps a thorny branch on a withered old tree guarding silently a mountain pass of the Alps, or a frozen glacier of fire petrified and writhing motionlessly on the slopes of Olympus Mons. Premeditated regret: it is adrenaline incarnate, yet at the same time insouciant gloom. On the shoulders of premeditated regret I gaze afar at the silhouette of a Zeppelin tune: What Is And What Should Never Be. John Paul Jones God bless your life, and hit me a spliff of that brotherly bass line. The ink of constitutions is what you could call “institutional” premeditated regret; others are more comfortable with “the inevitable scapegoatism of civilization”. Regardless, I row this boat on the river Styx — senile Charon I punched overboard and now I glide through the underworld with an oakwood plank of premeditated regret. Jay-Z knows his kung-fu well, whilst in a flurry of reasonable doubt he spits: “in order to survive, gotta learn to live with regrets”. Nay, trust me, he slipped. You can’t live with regrets. By that I mean to say, no life is ever the same once it has passed a point of no return. But then again, in the multitude of multiverses we are only specks of regret pondering our own closures, premeditating our singularities, as unescapable yet unfathomable as the closure of the cosmos. In two weeks’ time I will have confronted the product of my own divination. Death the bartender of space stations please can I order a synthale, and yes I will drink to that, cheers and a chug for premeditated regret.
23 Oktober 2016