Sculptures by Aris Katsilakis

Written by Malashree Suvedi

The apocalypse is now. It opens at our end; and I feel like I knew you once even though you’ve become disfigured and dimorphic, and the love I felt for you is displaced.  I do know who you are, technically, but you changed. And with you, because you were always the centre of everything for better or for worse, the world changed. The universe bulges in an uneven pattern leaving behind tumours of dread and ugliness, while all that’s holding our lives together are a few meaty strings ready to break apart with one little movement. And contrary to what everyone might believe, what the media feeds us, what our teachers tell us, what our religious figures preach, what our parents warn us about, what our politicians talk about, what lunatics smoke about; contrary to everyone, the world does not end after the apocalypse. It’s just natural. It’s evolution because after all, that’s what it is. That’s what Darwin was getting mocked and praised and bullied for. Evolution est Mutation.

But it doesn’t feel natural; no that it doesn’t. I’m stuck between your eyelashes like a radioactive pearl sprouting off decayed hopes and decayed songs in the form of tentacles ready to grab at everything. Tentacles that take the shape of gramophones moralising nihilism and cynicism and absurdism in only one sentence that my tentacles repeat over and over again, like your finger’s the needle that scratches at the surface of my heart over and over again. I, or since my being has become unrecognisable to me; it, screeches: We’re all dead fish swimming towards freedom.

I can’t explain it but I know what it means. And I know you do too even though all I can hear from you are unrecognisable, animalistic grunts, and the raging stink of your breathing tells me that all you want to do is claw your way out of that pimpled shell that I must call a body and become a part of the apocalypse that ironically, began from you. But now, even it is unrecognisable from and to you. It has become so much more and you still remain a crab scuttling across the universe in complete apathy.


I don’t love you. I don’t love the person I am addressing this to. I don’t love who I’ve become. But I feel a familiarity that rings true in my burned ulcers, my twisted digestive tracts, my petroled lungs, and thus I must abandon myself, and I must abandon you, whoever you are, and became a part of the greater madness riding a mutated ship with a mutated crew to a mutated freedom.