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xanadouche

happiness is overrated but contentment is where it is at if one can push themselves to relate to things outside of their own rituals to a comfort because this is where we risk ourselves to achieve more upon a toppling ideal of self that wobbles and withers with the winds of time and change soon calling out guts that some of us claim we have plenty to spare in vocal relays to reinforce this sickly consciousness as an opportunistic flair to be put like a feather in our caps, but the merry games we play are nothing in a comparison with the sick and grotesque people we become when we are allowing this overconfidence to overtake our will to live trying to survive while still others are assured their crowning glory thanks to the few that push the levels of risk toward the product of inevitable conclusions the proportions of fear and manipulation all the rage as errorists will repossess your mind and actions dragging all puffed-up ideas of yourself into the realm of mistakes, making you attack yourself and those things that make up your uniquity as a person and the entity you are truly though you must try to remember that what you came in with is all the material you will leave to those living long after what you have left as a human is seen through vital changes of a metamorphosis into the sentient substance of the universe that tragedy is a just catalyst we must endure as a species of sentimental being that take consciousness seriously… space is the final frontier for those knowing their own fears and prejudices with certainty that no other scope of landscape will do as the adventure builds the one who goes down such a path that is readily digesting those that never crossed the line finishing glorious as a trophy to be possessed again by visions of success just beyond mines buried in the sand exposing the raw ideas as that damned material that is Mankind forcing us to bend and change with a nature raped and mistaken as antagonistic enemy to humanity as a whole, but even these lies protrude like sharp sticks poking through plastic bubbles that only stretch so far before they break and pop or drop whatever hidden gasses or masses moving alive inside without a safety net Now as much wet without a skin to constrain the contained effect still yet in motion under devoted auspices of a ridicule and foolish respect profane for only these moments as it all changes once viewed in retrospective glances toward the past, both living and dead from all these consequences unobserved we shape it as the world shapes us from an unawakened slab of flesh and meat too soon self-awareness of what this means to be human creature featured where it doesn’t seem to belong as a fetid persuasion mutates further out of range thanks to this sort of paradigmatic exploitation taken to the hilt when the knife finally settles deep inside the back where a shocking attention to detail is kept secretive subverse to the laymen whose flirts deal solely with those demons within each other as born other viewing this dichotomy…

Thanks, khet.