Hate is love’s indigestion. It is love that has spoiled and gone sour. No matter how much rumination, it is bitter rejection.
Hate burns from the center of one’s being. A furnace of destruction. It destroys because it hangs in suspension, trapped above the bowels and below the throat. It swings like a fanatic pendulum, pulled in every-which-way. Hate’s torque unhinges one’s being. Sick and agitated, the whole body quakes. It’s muscles pulsate, it’s stomach walls lacerated. Blood and acid kiss, walls wrench.
So nauseating is bitter love. Self-preservation requires it.
Love is not a tasty morsel. The hubris of the tongue, to taste so! Love is inedible, eternal motion. It cannot be captured by the body, for bodies are captured by it.
Hate is only the symptom of the disease of Self. To emancipate love, one must emancipate one’s Self–to empty a stomach-full of pretensions. “I,” vomited. Self prolapse into the flesh of the Other. Inside-out, outside-in. Starfish becoming plural in their destruction. Trans-generation.