Taken purely at face value, postscripts stands as one of the utmost discomforting works I’ll encounter; when viewed allegorically, [x]'s novella perfectly illustrates how the horror in which we exist holds us captive as victims of both consciousness and the other, whereby we are gradually lulled into various states of paralysis, so that the indiscriminate compulsions of the mind and its externality diminish and rape us repeatedly until we go mad, seek our next exit, or both. Driven towards that grim, inevitable conclusion, the only willful choice we have, argues postscripts, is to take our own lives, not merely to spite intrinsic or extrinsic want, but to reclaim ourselves from its clutches. At once a last gasp and a solo debut, [x]’s novella is a triumphant showcase of far more than its masterful deathdrive.
"Death belongs to those who no longer desire it, not out an abundance of life but the flowering of its lack."
Postscripts is a complex read. [x] is, in her words, a "flatlined lyricist." The book is full prose and, even though it's beautifully written, I feel that 88 pages is too long. I got lost along the way.