Friday, November 1, 2013

The Gospel of

You are a pathetic excuse for a human being. You barely even qualify for the title. You crawl so low to the ground that you might as well be a worm. You. Are. Abject.

You cast the pity on the charade you’ve woven yourself into — the poverty you’ve pushed yourself into and the desperation you have embodied. Can I blame you, even? Or are you a symptom of a circumstance, like I, with no blame appropriate at the feet, just a common reaction to a common circumstance? I am disinclined to give you the benefit of the doubt; you have given me no reason to suspend my disbelief or to reserve judgment. And so I seem foolish in letting you ensnare me in your web of necessity. But maybe that is the risk I must take.

A myriad of omission takes place — you forget who you are, where you came from, what you have to offer this world. All you know is the rut you’ve firmly dug yourself into — if nothing else, you know that.

Stop so pathetically and slowly killing yourself. Do time and-or the world a favour, and end it now — extinguish yourself and be done with it. You are so clearly already carving your path — one would hate to make it effete.

Hack your miner’s lung, rationalize your bullshit, forget your responsibility.

It’s not like anyone was ever counting on you to become anything.


Still scratching his head.