Letters from Void Mother.

Dearest, darling sweetheart, You are the hole. It’s not a place you go to. It’s not a thing in you that you go into. It is you. This is you - a sink hole full of shit. The bad smell in every room. Your desperation to prove otherwise makes you poisonous and toxic on top of what a vile thing you already are. It makes you angry at the world for what is your nature, for the life you have been given.

Instead of learning that your job is to stay small and quiet and be grateful that you haven’t been killed yet by someone who can see what you are. Accept the truth. Remember what you are. All my love, Mother.

Dearest one, Fuck fantasy. Fuck dreams. Fuck your “soul”. Fuck what you think you know. Fuck magic. Fuck art. Fuck play. Fuck other peoples’ respect and love. Fuck your feelings. Fuck all that shit. Crush your dreams. Because shit is all you will ever be. All my love, Mother.

Most beloved one, Hide your feelings. Remember what you are. Don’t tell anyone what you feel. Have some decency. No pleasure. No joy.  No relaxation. No fun. Train purely to struggle. Because suffering is what you deserve. Live to grind. Earn to serve. Only in service can you be spared. All my love, Mother.

My sweet darling, Avoid thinking unless it’s necessary. Avoid people unless it’s necessary. Avoid feeling except to feel the reality that you a bottomless hole of toxic shit You’re lucky that anyone tolerates you. Don’t push it. Stay quiet. Stay unobtrusive.  Be useful. All my love, Mother.

My most adorable child, Hope is the problem. Hope that there is a way out. Hope that you might be OK. Hope that dreams are possible. Hope that love is possible. Hope that help might come. There is no hope. This is all there is. The hole is reality. All my love, Mother.

My sweet, little darling, Nobody is coming to save you. Stop letting your feelings leak out in what you say. Stop hinting about it, shut yourself down and play happy. Kill the idea that someone will notice and come to help. There’s nothing good about you. No one should care. No one should notice. Crush your soul. All my love, Mother

My treasure, It’s like that nice Mr Bukowski says, You’re either creative… …in which case your ideas and visions come tearing up out of you, unstoppable, demanding to be seen, to be heard, to be felt… …or you’re not in which case you should give up and live your boring drone life. That’s you: an uncreative drone. Your attempts at being creative are a joke that has everyone laughing. Give up. All my love, Mother.

My darling, adorable son, You’re a small, mediocre person with no talent or drive. Your life has been nothing. It will be nothing. You were dead before you were born. You have never been anything. You will never be anything. Your life has been a waste. All my love, Mother.

My darling son, You have missed your life’s meaning. You have squandered your life.  It has been entirely futile, a life spent fantasising. Lost in useless dreams. Hustling for attention so you don’t feel lonely, like a weak child.  You are too weak of a faggot to live your dreams.

You have spit in God’s face, returning to death at last having done nothing with the gift you have been given. It is too late.  It has always been too late.  Your empty life is a waste. All my love, Mother.

Dearest child,

To be honest…

You are shit.

You are a black hole of shit.

You are nothing.

You are a weak little faggot.

You are a poison in the lives of the people closest to you.

You are too weak even to safely remove yourself from the lives of people you claim to love.

You are dead. A cold, dead thing that has never truly lived.

All my love,