by Arran James
To shake people up, to wake them from their sleep, while knowing you are committing a crime and that it would be a thousand times better to leave them alone, since when they wake, too, you have nothing to offer them. . . .
-EM Cioran, The trouble with being born
I look about at the world around me, letting the effort of meaning-production drop and turning away from the distractions that keep my mind abuzz and away from the horror; I look about at It and wonder what justification there can be for psychiatry. A hierarchy of sufferings; technologies of anaesthetic; the kingdoms of coping and not coping, deterritorialised. I have chosen a uniform, now I await the revolt that will destroy me. In the meantime I am cast on rough waves of swelling electronic music, films, television shows about the future, the bad infinite of the internet… hyper-aroused in the electronic age I wire myself in to a permanent dose of ECT. The current is passed. I convulse. We all convulse.