“Parrhesia is a criticism, a self-criticism or a criticism directed to others, but always from a situation where the one talking is in a position of inferiority with respect to an interlocutor. Parrhesia comes from below and is directed towards above.” Michel Foucault, Discours et Vérité, p. 84, Librairie Philosophique, VRIN, 2016.
I shan’t complain. I have had a lot of luck. Good fortune even. Or, maybe, it was by merit, just maybe it was a matter of worth. Whose worth? And is it worth it? Who the fuck am I, after all? Over time your self gets heavier. Stuff sticks to it – weighs you down – wears you out. Try flying if your wings are tarred with trying to move on despite pain, despite spite. Strike spite. I don’t hold a grudge. You’re all acquitted except for me because my head is a horse-heavy hole of hatred circulating itself. Heave. Ho.
Maybe that was the big bang. Maybe it’s what the humming in my ear wants to say when it is hissing. Once there was a ‘Who am I?’ asking what-the-fuck who imploded to be done with it and she (why not she?) had no clue that on the other side of implosion was – damn symmetry, damn it to hell (or not because it will bless you right back to heaven it will – an explosion and all of us. Every single one of us. Including me. Free speech like spit spite of me always trying to get on top and stuff clinging to me heavy-ing my head. Ho.
But you’re having fun, no. You are having fun. Well, fuck you, fuck the fit and fuck you well, for this: