The Donkey of Myself

I would guess that because I’ve already written about the subjects I have, that I am expected to keep that up. Or maybe that’s a psychic machine that I didn’t even realize I built, pushing me in that direction. Are the things you think people want just what you want? What a tired old question.

All you can ever really do is think about yourself. Which is why it’s such a big fucking deal to think about other people’s point of view. At best, you’re going to be able to contemplate a speculation of what they think. Which is somewhat pointless but what isn’t these days? The chance to maybe see things from something that isn’t tainted by yourself is worth it, I think.

I think people don’t realize how much they hate themselves. They don’t explore the pain they carry and that makes the pain more potent. Everything you hate about the world is everything you hate about yourself, because you are the world.

My brain is like sparking wires riding on legions of shuffling insects. Shit is exploding, lurking, eating, smoldering, dying, waiting, breathing, swimming and bathing all over my mindscape. I hate the fact that there’s always more of me. I don’t know if I keep making it up or if there is just more and more but I know it’s worth checking into. I find coolness where I saw horror and I find evil where I once saw transcendence but maybe I’m just watching myself live through growing. Awareness is weird like that.

Basically, I am shitting thought in a poorly constructed pattern, barely recognizable as children’s english but hey, drugs do weird things to your ability to express yourself…and stuff. Whatever

 

That was the most listless part of my day. The lethargy and foulness I felt during self-examination were marauding me from dark corners of my mind.

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