telepathboy

(am I drunk, or am I clear?)

It is a silly, silly demon that we call fate. All at once she composes our fears, our loves, our hopes, and everything that we gleefully watch crash to the ground in flames. How we hold our hands extended, to taste every fickle flame that chooses to grace ourselves with it's heat... while loathing every flame that takes the wit and guileless hairs from our stubborn, stubborn poors. Oh discordia, when the last blood falls from the royal pauper, to the golden streets that we dreamed of in youth. But as every street of gold was promised, another dark and dismal palace of suffering was built, brick by brick, from the suffering that we lovingly call life. That we lovingly call growing. That we lovingly call learning, hoping that each individual failure teaches us to grow and to become more of the human subjct that we believed existed in our childhood. But where has humanity gone? The question of existence, in an existential sense, has long become a moot point. Sophecles is ofrgotten. The concept, the precept of humanity is no longer a concern. Humanity is no longer sometbing to strive for... it is what our parents tell us is under our bed. Humanity is not an ideal, it is something to fear. It is not an achievement, it is reprehensiblem it is forbidden.

I read, when books are to be burned.

I teach, when ignorance is praised.

I love, when nothing is left but fear.

Oh discordia, the last gunslinger has fallen.