B. J. Muirhead


To the fearful

You could be forgiven for what you have become: no more than worshippers of beliefs that hide deepest fears, stretched to incongruity, hidden like hermits dancing in skulls, covered with cracks no light can reveal, but which shatter before strangers

On their way to death, you will join hands, remember bodies loved, caressed, fucked as though to overwhelm everything for which you demand forgiveness,

As though anyone but you can forgive the actions fear has drawn across your life.

To the believers

When Nietzsche said I was dead he was overstating my existence, an ontology of which would be empty, a null event not unlike the ghost whispering

To the shallow prey of your daily thought with which you stalk and destroy everything you may yet become

Which is difficult: to become who you are is our task, he said; and I am not dead but absent, have chanced upon who I am.

And I am no longer the whip you use to charge others with your fear. No. I am the absence you must understand if I am to be found to be who I am.

But that also is an overstatement. Nietzsche would approve.

B.J. Muirhead is a photographer and writer living in semi-rural Australia.
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