Artificial Love
I'm sick of the world, the assholes, the never ending torrent of bullshit that comes constantly raining down from the sky like a mystical river. It comes just as much out of their mouths and eyeballs as it does their misplaced motivation. The assholes are everywhere, they're mostly running things. I'm sick of them.
They tell you to stand firm, to be steadfast, to be a hardworking jerk-off. They lead you to believe that this will bring you praise, happiness and the fullfillment of all the dreams that you ever dared to have.
It's all a pack of lies, all a part of some sinister interwoven higher plan of control. Nobody's organized it, it's just there, seething in the collective consciousness like a virus, waiting for the merest brush with a truly innocent spirit to be activated and become utterly lethal.
I saw an ad for a movie the other day that showed a woman who was foolish enough to connect her sense of self with her flowing, glowing, marvelous hair. Beautiful hair. Easy target. They shaved it off with shears and left her lying and raped on the dark wet concrete.
It came across as they wanted it because she was female, but we all get raped, men and women both. We turn into assholes and start shitting all over everything just like everybody else. People turn their own children against one another just so they have some false moment of praise that they've backstabbed so hard to create.
Artificial love. It just makes you an addict for more. But most people settle for it because the real stuff's too hard to come by. It's too much work, and it's too risky. Nothing draws a bullseye to your vulnerability like showing your love, and once the secret's out, you'll never get it into the vault again.
But what the hell? That's what I always say. What the hell? Even rape can be called love if you understand the pain of your attacker.
It's all about understanding, and biting off so much more than you can chew that you end up chocking gloriously.
Don't stand back desperately tapping your foot in the darkness and pitifully groping for the edge. Take it with a running start. We're all going over, it might as well be on your own terms.
The End