Thrown onto the dance of Life’s path,
bearing only my own opened gaze—
much like children chasing blue butterflies
seek an inner cure with ample causes...

I have gone wild.

I have irresistibly
clawed in hearts
where nothing real exists.

I tear down your chosen brand of "morality."

Everything that is open to criticism is constantly defended; you smear over your small minds with clichés, ensuring nothing can ever be firmly established—preventing you from moving on to gladness and freedom. Smoothing things over or seek out convenient problems to fill up the vast emptiness.

Amidst all the twists and missteps in the "manufacturing defects" lies a void trapped in dependency, dispensing a semblance of power and authority that amounts to one thing: worthless trash.

The distress born of compulsion...

You... I have thoroughly cleansed myself of everything the controlled society has spewed up, and definitely stopped listening to the vacillation, the hesitation, and any fear of reaching clarity and fact. As I said, the disturbed rush to defend anything criticized, acting as if platitudes and empty words can justify anything. No firm ground or insight is allowed to take hold. The weak—collectively confused—interpret things based on fleeting whims, since nothing really matters anyway... Those rendered invisible refuse to see where the root causes lie. They project their own baseness onto others while holding their breath for a moment. That is how things play out at rock bottom.

If something isn't easily accessible to "simple folk" or doesn't invite participation in society, it is met with lamentation...

Aggression and threats are all they listen to. Fear dictates what they obey. There are parallels here to pretending to work, pretending to be needed, pretending to be respected—pretending until all the half-measures and inanities become the only things they see. This posturing wishful thinking usually demands far more effort than actually performing. My thinly veiled contempt stems from the fact that they are colossally stupid and, consequently, a hindrance to humanity.

*

The air is still now. The evening sun warms the pines so beautifully, so beautifully...

I see the deranged grinning vacantly in the glare of the sun. They have been cast aside, toiling until the day they die, never daring to listen to anything but idle chatter. They believe in justice, that things even out somewhere, that their sense of hopelessness and humiliation is merely passing—rather than a state that persists until nothing remains of their "lives."

The parasites take and take and give their false words for hope in return... The victims store false information and believe that it is knowledge they have, that it is intelligence they have... They cling tightly to their addict visions, their fantasies away from memories of trauma; distorted minds are well known and well used in survival tactics. So alike the wishes of love twist the ugly to beautiful where the image of the object distorts the inner until it is good enough. The day sometimes comes when a real image pushes forward and is seen in the light and the bitterness bites.

Without the great hope that you matter, you have nothing, you might say?


Ignore all empty hope and just live.

No filters or bars have helped anyone.