Its 10:48 pm where I live. My sister made an amazing dinner and we all just ate. Everybody’s out in the t.v lounge, watching old songs. My youngest sister who’s 7 is playing with her doll house that Mum just bought for her today. Dad left for some work trip out of city last night. My brother is in the gym since the past 2 hours. I’m sitting here in my room playing with my matchbox. I’m thinking about setting my house and everything that we own on fire.
I want to destroy it all. The nice things we bought for ourselves. The stupid dollhouse. The stupid t.v. and the stupid fridge and the toaster and the car in the garage, the shit expensive furniture and the air conditioners and the shit expensive computers and phones, everything. Because I’m fucked up in the brain.
Yeah. That’s what they call this. That’s what they call you. Fucked up in the head. That’s what I am, for wanting to destroy everything in sight that is a reminder of the illusion I created for myself. The imaginary wall that I’ve made. The bars that I’ve set up and made from the finest and the hardest metals. I made my existence impenetrable with my own hands. Impenetrable to the filth of the world.
The filth. You’re not one of the filth of the world. No. Nobody looks at you in scorn when you step into big institutions. No, everybody listens to you because your voice must matter more. Because you are not the filth. Because you were lucky enough to not be born in a filth hole.
Because you have a nice house. A nice car. A nice meal 6 times a day. Nice schools. Nice clothes and bags and shoes. That’s what separates you from another human that you call filth. The wall you have built with your material goods made sure you were separated from humans who are different from you by just a strike of luck.
I want to set my house on fire because that is what separates me from another human who lost to luck when it came to money. I want the wisp of fire on this matchstick in my hand to turn into a source of revulsion. I want to burn my house.
Strike the dice again God. Boom. Filth. You’re the filth now. Nice things are a memory. Ashes. Burned to oblivion. No longer the happy family who walks with their noses in the air. No more mocking glances from behind car windows about beggars. No more scanty pity charity as a showstopper stunt in front of your in-laws. No more I have a nicer car and neighbourhood and phones and laptops. Only ashes. Finished. Taste the dirt. Taste the filth. Youre one of the filth now. The wisp of fire is feeding on the materialism of my existence.I let it grow. I watch it bloom. My brother’s back from the gym and I can hear him shout. My baby sister is screaming and my mother has passed out.
I burned my house because I’m fucked up in the brain. I yearn the taste of life as a piece of filth to be scorned at and hissed at and starve and beg out of misery and I want people to hit me for pestering them with my problems. I want a taste of the misery that is found in the ashes of these material things. So I burned my house and everything nice in it.