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Sacrificing Under Suspicion to Err in Judgment.

Here we are, the amassed, waiting to be saved from some imagined inevitable fury. Waiting for the grace of angels to guide us away beyond fear. Fearing the intrusion of our collective wisdom through fables and an idiotic literal interpretation of stories. Storytelling is the art of the free mind, to accept the damage done, and piece together the remains into a cohesive entity. A living breathing organism from which we can objectively face our greatest fears in an organized manner befitting a civilized culture. Culture really just eats away at our sense of individual freedom as we give ourselves over to something other than our own dreams of progress. Progressing beyond a vortex where we can live out the purest forms of ourselves at the peak of existence. Existing as beings of insight possessing a true understanding of who and what our presence means. Meaning seems lost on most of us under the weight of fear and a betrayal of senses. Sensing something real that is merely the illusion blinding us from an ability to get out of the mess of our instinctual behaviors. Behaving as possessed figures from nightmares, the monsters of our own deepest heart, but a primitive display of hatred and fear in light of ignorance. Ignorant of our own facelessness when the time comes to stand up for our own faults. Faulty hardware that we are in control of only so far, and into the miasma we breed our worst interpretations of a soul. where does this come from, my friends?

Thanks, khet.