paintings 5
Ego - a prisoner of its own interpretation of reality - chained to seven perceptual dimensions by false projection. What is Shunyata? It is the wind in the chest, the breath - the stench of fish rotting in the Sulejowski Lagoon.
Only emptiness everywhere. Some anthropocentric chatter. Also emptiness. In Gdansk, soap, bags and dumplings were made from people. Also emptiness. He doesn't have to do anything to live. Here is his body. His human mind, grotesque, ridiculously tangled. Entangled in trivial emotions. A distraught cabot. And then there's this. Kicks in the brain not to think about it.
There is only what exists on the outside. This is so obvious that it is laughable. Inside, there is nothing. Emptiness overwhelms and brings to its knees. It takes everything away. It sweeps benzopyrenes into the veins and radioactive substances. It burns out quarks and gluons. Until the head, together with the mind, twists at the second circle.

Emptiness once experienced, in the back of your mind present forever. And releasing hatred. Pure, wonderful hatred. What would the ego be without hate. A human-like atopic dermatitis. A finger held in the anus for a moment.
Ego hates its Polish liver. He rips it out and puts it next to him. It nails it to the floor and watches. How hatred attests to pride. Pride and his shitty Polish large intestine. Acidified Polish stomach or cervical cancer. The outside world and ridiculous Polish erythrocytes flow in the veins. They dissolve on the verge of unthinking, festering. The emptiness of the body bleeds. It is like a woman. Or even four. Translated with (free version)
His soaring views were formed arbitrarily. Suggesting the existence of a substantial consciousness. Ego thus grew above the multitudes. Attempts were made to beget a Pole in him. And there, what a surprise, in the testicles also Emptiness - and Polish spelled with a lowercase letter. Like vaginal hemorrhoids. Watched when he raises his hand and puts meat in his mouth. When he impulsively scratches his head. He sits in a chair and doesn't stop talking. Today he has a headache, a penetrating pain, a murderous pulse of mucous membrane. His pain is no one's pain. His thoughts are no one's. Between Shunyata and imagining tomorrow. His human qualities bleed into him.
The not-me slices meat with a dull knife. His meat is rotting. And from the eyes anal cug, the iris evaporates stale. Like a mouth full of caries. Implosion of presence - all that passes through not-self. As it absorbs matter, the ego identifies with the family. When seated. When standing, with the nation. It sucks in patriotism, black pudding and bone-in ribs. Hatred penetrates with a deep breath. Not-self absorbs humanity and a half liter of vodka.
Air comes and goes - thoughts come and go - the mind resists - incessantly chatters and onanizes - release and flow - similarly, as bupropion hydrochloride floods the brain with cinnabar-dull jelly - absence seeps in from outside - absences perforate synapses. I watch it breathe still and plan for tomorrow - where not long ago there was a self - flesh and bone alternately revives and rots - foods come and go - fluids come and go.
I build awareness when the mind resists. Resisting every second. Stomachs distended - empty - the fetor of removed secretions, ot the metaphysics of meat on the bone. Leaning over the bowl, I untangle the fallopian tube with a golden knife. Teasing with the blade, I stimulate the frigid ovaries. So that I can be born again. Everything that passes through me has been fertilized. The veins in which the outside world flows - anxiety in the lower abdomen and pain in the body - I fill to the brim with Escitalopram.
The Emptiness unites matter with antimatter, truth with falsehood, mathematics with philology. In the Emptiness, a mother kills her child, a sister kills her brother with a golden knife. In the Emptiness, blood fills the water supply. Looking for the meaning of the flow, meat with bone responds to pain and a half liter of Tennessee Whiskey. With a spoon, the golden liver grinds into three, squeezing the already sour fluoxetine into four. In the Emptiness, religions ferment at the bottom of communism, and democracy is like a mangled barley on the nipple of the left nipple.
Entangled in a freely accessible reality that I don't really understand. The surging speedometer of the bed taking control over the knotted brain is nothing more than the concurrent force of erection, which will seize it all with one turn of the black-shaded fear, third in a row. Resistance silenced under the skin three times. My deep chest trauma restores the heart function with hormonal therapy using testosterone as any other – it keeps the air in lungs as bubbles-balloons driven on daggers of emotions. Murderers of flowers caught up in women's cycle enslavement intuitively stand in the draught of blood with fingers glued together with moisture. They look on when a sanitary napkin slides off revealing cirrhosis of the uterus.
There is only what exists outside. Sun, rain, kidney or eye. When the same thoughts nag again, he makes models of them in wax. Something like an invitation to therapy or a CT scan. Dieting is cognitively attracting. It's listening to the fumes of exhaled air.
Happiness - a kind of suffering. The ego experiences it by tormenting itself with chronic well-being. To the right and slightly above the vault of the corpus callosum, between the ego and the self. Meat on the bone, bent over a plate, slices off a temporal lobe with a silver knife and places it in the esophagus. Compulsive-impulsive consumption opens a space for clashing subjectivities.
After entering Shunyata, time exploded without shoddy fireworks. Somewhere between a shallower phase and a deeper one. A relaxed absence revealing a cosmically objective reality - something like a slight masturbation compulsion.
Disintegrating subjectivity - reveals the primary and ultimate reality.
Ego wobbles. At first, it stops breezing and finally breathes out. And then she appears. Shunjata. There is something special about her. Not pleasure - attraction. A few more short breaths. The subjective world drifts away. With all its corpses.
The mind in Śunjata is devoid of an observer. Present in it is only what is outside - houses, streets, cars, passersby - everything in sight. There is no one inside. There is no inner conscious Self. What I really am is absence. To the question of who I am, the answer is simple - that which is outside.
The reality in Shunyata is the world observed by the troupe.
The world in the void of Shunyata is not a world of vegans or nature advocates. It is not the world of humanists. There the son kills the mother as naturally as the mother kills the child, plain and simple. The entrails slashed with a knife are just a picture. The pain is just a grimace on the face. A shattering scream is just a sound wave. Whatever is happening is in its place.