Roughneck Prettyboy

A funny thing is The Will. It is the principle of animation in the world, the motive force of movement, the feeling that one can think and act and behave voluntarily. It has one thinking that it can actuate the body on command, and warp the entire world into a desired shape. The Will compels "the self" to get out of bed, it drives the limbs when the exhaustion of life is chewing at the soul; it pushes and it presses when there is resistance and opposition to living; it keeps one going, when Instinct and Reason are laughing at each other. "Life" itself seems like a fighting-against-gravity of the Will, like the Will is all that matters. It is a chemical reaction from need, and nourishment, and the spontaneous gestures of "passion" and "drive." The Will is also the instrument that responds when there is a recoil from pain, it is a machine of defense from infection and death, and a beautiful, wonderful extension of self. And, what if it turns? What is it then? What if the Will becomes a total stranger inside of you, a something-to-overcome? What if the Will becomes a negation of the self, or if it becomes an act of aggression and an enemy too? Would anyone believe you? This book is what happens when the Will is displaced by a foreign tissue, when it is buried by a nasty allergic reaction, when it is almost entirely vanished. This book is what happens when a man becomes afraid of himself, when he senses in himself only the wish to destroy; when all of his thoughts are corroded, and every intention to do good is contaminated and gross. This is what happens when I am fully addicted and withering from alcohol. Because I had dreams too, I had rights and demands - I didn't want my life to be a fever, a blister in the sun, a shaking hesitation in the breath of all those that loved me. But I have only so much control over myself, and the rest is just a hope for survival.