8/8/16 02:13 am - Pour Your Heart Out - Psychotic Foreplay Results, As Referenced For A Measure Of Doubt
God, the disgust in my mouth makes it hard to pity them. Sometimes I'm more tempted to eat them alive than to keep supporting their... their demand for submission, for subservience. They're just like everything I tried to undo, everything I fought. All of that horror, all of that fear that one moment off and everything would be lost. You can take care of a problem, but when you go to visit your parents back home, you're not sure if they're not the problem, or perhaps the fact you've let yourself be taught to see them as better people than you are. It seems like it should be minor, to me, but I'm hinged on what might be the last page, I almost won, and now the last thing to save looks more rotten than the worst thing I'd encountered, at heart, and far less easy to convince into change. This whole species is a plague to the idea of paradise.
There's that shred of hope, however. That one that comes up when I'm led to wonder if I'm right, if these correlations I'm experiencing in such tight correlation with what I'm aware of are valid proofs that my deeper, most involved progress is actually reaching the result I kept finding sitting there, staring me in the face, telling me I could accomplish it in a time span that preceded my death. Like I let myself believe my parents were better people than I am, I keep letting myself believe this achievement isn't actually possible; in all that irony, I'm starting to take my option more seriously.
I hear rumors, as though other people have been pushing quite fervently into very relevant realms of study. I know, unfailingly, the data I need if I'm to encounter any real-world confirmations of the things I keep having brought up for myself, those studies aren't going to be available. Every chance at knowing more that I find leads down to some dead end imitation of what could be insinuated by taking its findings and making them... well, as humans do, taking them backwards, degrading them, and using them to pacify people's needs in the modern world instead of providing this species with an opportunity to enhance and understand what it could have been, if it knew what caring actually was.
So the roads keep concealing their potential findings into softer, less implicating practices. You find an ocean for the first time, and come home with a grain of salt. Everyone feels salt goes better with their food. Still, I know someone's been out there. I don't know that any of the subjects have maintained composure, I don't know... which thing I know, I can't find what piece explains what happened. So here I am, watching what I'm going through work, the results are setting my nerves off and I can understand what I'm staring at while recognizing my readings will never comply with the systems of deciphering phenomena that reign in authority for the grand world around me. I'm lucky, though, I'm alone here. I never need to explain a thing to anyone. This possibility, if I can breach it, god the irony. It's already become too hard to doubt that it can be done, if I prove it, though... it'll only be because I've done it. If it goes as far as all of what I've been seeing day in and out says it's going... I'll be able to finally go where I belong.