I have always believed anatomy is a scripture written in flesh, a blasphemous gospel that begs to be read with a blade instead of reverence. To others, the body is sacred or sentimental; to me, it is a map of truths hidden beneath skin, a puzzle whose answers only reveal themselves when silence is enforced. I do not see people; I see structures, tensions, failures waiting to be exposed. In the hush before the cut, I feel closer to understanding than I ever did in prayer. Bone and sinew whisper differently once the surface is breached. There is a terrible honesty to what lies beneath, a purity stripped of pretense, where lies cannot survive because there is no mouth left to speak to them. I study how muscle layers cling together like conspirators, how nerves recoil as if aware of what I intend. Anatomy is not chaos; it is order pretending to be fragile.
When I cut, it is never random. Every incision follows a thought, every separation a question answered. I dismantle not out of rage but curiosity, tracing how strength is assembled and how easily it can be undone. The blade is merely my punctuation, marking the end of one sentence and the beginning of another written deeper within. Blood, when it comes, is incidental; ink spilled from a ruptured pen. What matters is revelation: how a body betrays its owner the moment structure is compromised. I learn where power truly resides, how balance collapses when a single support is removed. In this, I find a grim satisfaction, not pleasure, but certainty.
There is a rhythm to disassembly, a cadence that mirrors thought itself. Cut, observe. Separate, understand. Reduce complexity to components small enough to hold in the mind. Each act peels away illusion, until what remains is nothing, but truth laid bare and trembling. Some would call this cruelty, but cruelty implies excess. I am economical. I take only what is required to learn. The body teaches willingly once resistance is stripped away, and in its final stillness, it offers clarity no living voice ever could.
In the end, anatomy is my philosophy made tangible. To cut is to comprehend, to divide is to dominate confusion. I leave behind ruin, yes; but also, knowledge, and knowledge, once gained, cannot be stitched closed again.
And that is my promise to those that have betrayed me, took from me, robbed me of happiness: And when you sleep, even prayers won't save you from this ghoul: Sweet Dreams.
When I cut, it is never random. Every incision follows a thought, every separation a question answered. I dismantle not out of rage but curiosity, tracing how strength is assembled and how easily it can be undone. The blade is merely my punctuation, marking the end of one sentence and the beginning of another written deeper within. Blood, when it comes, is incidental; ink spilled from a ruptured pen. What matters is revelation: how a body betrays its owner the moment structure is compromised. I learn where power truly resides, how balance collapses when a single support is removed. In this, I find a grim satisfaction, not pleasure, but certainty.
There is a rhythm to disassembly, a cadence that mirrors thought itself. Cut, observe. Separate, understand. Reduce complexity to components small enough to hold in the mind. Each act peels away illusion, until what remains is nothing, but truth laid bare and trembling. Some would call this cruelty, but cruelty implies excess. I am economical. I take only what is required to learn. The body teaches willingly once resistance is stripped away, and in its final stillness, it offers clarity no living voice ever could.
In the end, anatomy is my philosophy made tangible. To cut is to comprehend, to divide is to dominate confusion. I leave behind ruin, yes; but also, knowledge, and knowledge, once gained, cannot be stitched closed again.
And that is my promise to those that have betrayed me, took from me, robbed me of happiness: And when you sleep, even prayers won't save you from this ghoul: Sweet Dreams.
