You’re a good little boy, aren’t you?
Pretend mode is what he called it. Welcome to the charade.
But here you are, the good little boy, keeping your head down and fist clenched and jaw locked. Resist the temptation to start chewing on somebody’s face, someone who looks at you the wrong way, someone who walks too slowly, too obliviously, (if this were the jungle, they’d have been eaten ages ago) and simply let the aura of a castrated predator emanate without purpose, direction, intent, forethought. Maybe they can smell this desire because I can smell their fear. Maybe you’re a good little boy only because you were broken at birth and carefully domesticated and now you’re just stuck straddling the world of predator and prey, creator and creation, persecutor and persecuted.
Who knows? You certainly don’t — that much is clear. But you smile so fine and say all the right things and wear the right clothes and give the right answers and drink the right drinks and do the right drugs and everything about you is just SO FUCKING CONSISTENT WITH EVERYTHING ELSE YOU’VE CREATED IN YOUR ILLUSION.
Masks cling like contact cement, soon betraying you and leaving you wondering whether or not you’re wearing the mask or THE MASK IS WEARING YOU. Bite down, clench the jaw, whiten the knuckles and refrain from hurling yourself at the next idiot to cross you in any fashion, and when you say any fashion, you MEAN any fashion. This is why and how and what you are doing with your life, what you’ve become, who you were and are and will be from now until the day you scrub your skull clean of all the impurities you’ve hidden and locked away in there. This is how you were made, this is what you made, YOU ARE WHAT YOU MADE. (I am my own creator and creation.) This is how we go from point A to B, how you make a monster and how you sanitize one, one in the same. (Psychic dissolution of a non-entity.)
What did you see in her? What do you see in any of them? Nothing and nothing and nothing and beauty. What a shallow, superficial, pathetic little shit, looking as far as your myopic eyes can see and only really seeing what you want to see. What do you want to see? Shallow little pools reflecting your own inadequacies. Is that why you hate them so much? Because you can’t stand the sight of your own reflection? I bet it is — I bet that’s why you hate them all and want to fuck them all but can’t stand the thought of fucking any of them, greedy, vacant hollow holes needing filling and you have nothing to fill that void and no one will let you forget just how little you have to fill that void, least of all yourself.
He’s crazy, you must be thinking at this point, he’s lost it and he’s dissolving like a house of cards made of sugar in the rain, running red and running down the sidewalk, evidence of a thoughtcrime you didn’t even commit, because how could you commit a crime when no action took place you limp-dick cowardly chickenshit. The paradox of your sin — having done nothing and maybe THAT’S WHY YOU HATE THE LITTLE BOY YOU’VE BEEN UNABLE TO CHANGE FROM. In fact, you’re almost certain that’s the reason you hate what you are, so damaged that it’d almost be funny if it weren’t so true and if it wasn’t actually you, but the more you dig the more you find and the more you find the more you realize that you are everything that you feared you were, you are what you fear and your fears are YOU. You don’t even care if any of this makes any sense, because who the fuck is reading these rambling, babbling discourses on nothing, nothing new and nothing that anyone wants to read because you are showing them ugliness when all the world wants (and all YOU want) is beauty and beautiful things and you are certainly NEITHER.
But you can pretend. You’re almost good at pretending. At least, that’s what you think. The reality of things is that you’re a shitty actor and an even shittier person, because that’s what you were raised to be and what your sickness made you, (it, your sickness, became your definition in the end) and what your excuses are always about. It wasn’t me, you claim, it was what was done to me, and then you reply No, that’s not it, I was what I was always meant to be, and this is just manifest destiny and reality colliding (VIOLENTLY) and you are trying to reconcile two mutually exclusive worlds that have nothing reconcilable between them, much like yourself and where you find yourself, just adrift in a sea of soul fetishizing and hair triggers and no reason other than some stupid desire for self-preservation in lieu of a real existence and real people and real emotions and real anything because THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE, YOU ARE WHAT YOU FEAR AND WHAT YOU FEAR IS YOU.
But bloodlust and psychosis has its limits, and maybe you’ve found it, your grin no longer quite so charming as the Ideas and Poor Facsimiles might have you think, and your clothes are skin-deep and your intellect your undoing and not your salvation. (Beautiful irony, you think.) But you’re ok with that, you’re ok with being fake and superficial and you’re ok with your obsession with beauty because that’s all the world wants and all that you want and all that anyone wants. Can you blame them? God no. This is the world we live in, this is the currency we exchange, the economy of beauty and the economy of desecration and the raison d’être and la joie de vivre and all those stupid fucking French euphemisms you supplant in lieu of real answers. The Ideas did this to you, the Id did this to me, and here we are, one and the same, the subject and the object, the reality and the delusion overlapping in a way that’s not quite false and not quite a lie but certainly not true, just like the rest of this nonsense and drivel and you are what you let yourself become; THIS IS YOU AND FOREVER YOU AND SOME THINGS JUST RUN DEEPER THAN SKIN AND THIS IS ONE OF THOSE THINGS.
This is the lie amongst truth, the truth amongst lies, a subshade of subjectivity. Modus ponens. Quod erat demonstrandum.
But you can pretend. You’re almost good at pretending. At least, that’s what you think. The reality of things is that you’re a shitty actor and an even shittier person, because that’s what you were raised to be and what your sickness made you, (it, your sickness, became your definition in the end) and what your excuses are always about. It wasn’t me, you claim, it was what was done to me, and then you reply No, that’s not it, I was what I was always meant to be, and this is just manifest destiny and reality colliding (VIOLENTLY) and you are trying to reconcile two mutually exclusive worlds that have nothing reconcilable between them, much like yourself and where you find yourself, just adrift in a sea of soul fetishizing and hair triggers and no reason other than some stupid desire for self-preservation in lieu of a real existence and real people and real emotions and real anything because THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE, YOU ARE WHAT YOU FEAR AND WHAT YOU FEAR IS YOU.
But bloodlust and psychosis has its limits, and maybe you’ve found it, your grin no longer quite so charming as the Ideas and Poor Facsimiles might have you think, and your clothes are skin-deep and your intellect your undoing and not your salvation. (Beautiful irony, you think.) But you’re ok with that, you’re ok with being fake and superficial and you’re ok with your obsession with beauty because that’s all the world wants and all that you want and all that anyone wants. Can you blame them? God no. This is the world we live in, this is the currency we exchange, the economy of beauty and the economy of desecration and the raison d’être and la joie de vivre and all those stupid fucking French euphemisms you supplant in lieu of real answers. The Ideas did this to you, the Id did this to me, and here we are, one and the same, the subject and the object, the reality and the delusion overlapping in a way that’s not quite false and not quite a lie but certainly not true, just like the rest of this nonsense and drivel and you are what you let yourself become; THIS IS YOU AND FOREVER YOU AND SOME THINGS JUST RUN DEEPER THAN SKIN AND THIS IS ONE OF THOSE THINGS.
This is the lie amongst truth, the truth amongst lies, a subshade of subjectivity. Modus ponens. Quod erat demonstrandum.
-M
