Here I am all alone again, if only for a little while It seems like an age. You are more confident than me, medusa, you know how to fight the pain. How do I fight the pain?
By embracing it, my little one. Remember? Think back. How was it then? Deny yourself.
I don't know how. I can't do it. I'm too weak now, I have given in and I can't fight. I know - technically - deny everything. Food, sleep. Everything, that's right isn't it?
Tell me how it feels. How does it feel to be alone?
Cold. It is so silent. I open my lips to drink, that is all. I have no voice, unless I sing to the music. The silence is like a yawning hole that fills me up. I am so sad. I want to talk to someone, I want to feel someone else is there. I don't care - they can do something else, ignore me or whatever, but I want to sense a presence. A knife.
Don't be a fool. Knives don't work really. The time is coming when you will have to look at yourself and realise that all that "being good to yourself" has choked the pain back. That's not good, is it?
No. I know that Medusa. Help me. Help me please. Take me hours ahead to when I have not eaten for a day. Can you do that?
I can't do that. All I can do is to show you how. Follow me. What time is it?
23:50 says the computer time.
One minute. Wait one minute. Now, see. If you can do it for one minute, you can do it for ten, for fifteen. For sixty.
I remember it now. I remember the pain. I can feel it. Yes.
Power. Feel that. Isn't it beautiful? It is the achievement of many days, long days. Count. However long it takes. Sense it.
Perfect pain.
And I know it comes down to this. You wake in the morning and it hurts. Grinding routine as you feel your body slipping into death. Fingers like claws and your body is eating itself. Feel it, feel it eating itself. The only truth is death. I don't need scars when my hip bones jut out so far you could cut things with them. When you feel it, feel the power, and feel the sick, twisted and rotting soul inside screaming out as it starves to death and destruction, beautiful pure pain. The flesh rolls away like an ocean, but even better, the skeleton is dying too. The bones, they are creaking and breaking, they shrink until it hurts. You can't walk, you can barely breathe. Perfection is the achievement of the rotted corpse as it struggles towards the ultimate demise.
Living death. You must understand the achievement, otherwise it will never work - trust in nothing, no one. The only truth is Medusa, as she drives you on and on until there is nothing left to drive and you are nothing, but physically nothing as well as spiritually.
We are the living nothing - worthless, soulless. Medusa is the all-powerful strength of self-denial. Do that, and you can do anything. It takes conviction, it takes commitment, there is no way to go half-way, it must be all or nothing. Medusa dies, and takes you with her as she falls. Driving spikes through your limbs and torso, feel the crunch of the bones, the cartilage as it is pierced with a thousand knives.
