God has nothing do with it. He did his best and laid the rest on me. Neither is it your fault that I am the one constantly lurking in the shadows; Unseen, Unwanted, Insulted, and Mocked. Nor is it in my purview to blame you for the attempts I’ve made on my life, to end it. Or rather, read closely, this part really gets interesting. It would be damn inappropriate to blame you for the mental shackles your words cage me in. After all, when I go down, for you it will be simply because I have a chicken heart. I chickened out like a premature puppy bound to be eaten by the bitch. The ground opens then caves at my feet, swallowing me whole. I depart from you.
But even in my depart, I struggle to mate with death like I intend. For there’s always the subconscious insistence urge to resuscitate, but why? Why do you desperately want to come back to life when all you have to do, is let go, sail gently into that abyss, or isn’t the abyss what you thought it would be? Is the abyss a vile place that you rather avoid and come back to this treacherous palace? Where’s the grand entrance? Where’s the dark exit?
Tell me, Dear self. Humour me, you the mongerer of death’s mockery, how do you do it? How do you aesthetically manage to stay sane in a world where safe places have been eroded, burnt down to ashes? How does it feel to live in the shadows? You do not exist to be human when to be yourself is to be a creation fated to be lynched, running for your life, living in closets, caught and beaten, tyres around your neck, paraffin swapping with blood and bruises, and lastly the matchstick Sparking your untimely demise. How do you breathe in a place where you are defiled and undefined? Or are the laws out of your hands? Don’t you know that God has a closet of His own?
I never chose this. I do not understand this. I’ve been estranged from you my Dear self, that you treat me as nothing but as an alien species, a poison tree. But that’s the thing you do not understand, do you? You think I’ve got options as you. To be free and be whatever I please. Well I ain’t got it. You think I’m bored, and I’m defiant, that’s why I chose this. There you go again, “choice”. I do not have that luxury of choice, when the society had long whitewashed your brain to believe that the question of to be or not to be is a matter of him and her. I’m damn exhausted. How can I trust you when your tribesmen soul’s are sold to the highest demigods? When they steal, it’s cool as long as it doesn’t affect you directly, and when I steal, I become the devil’s favorite demon. Only except I do not steal, I only strive to survive.
I thought you vouched for freedom as a salient right, or does it work only for those standing on higher pedestals? Those who can buy it then dispense it at free will like piss, or better yet, repackage it, then resell it? I’m tired of being tossed around like a loose penis. Scratch that, I meant ‘loose Pennies’
School me, be patient with me as I learn to view things in other people’s perspectives before I judge. I’ve got priviledges, let me uncheck them before I say hello.
(Dear Self, 02)
Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.
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