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Started by Sepia, March 26, 2015, 10:38:38 PM

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Sepia

The iron hand crush'd the Tyrant's head
And became a Tyrant in his stead. -- William Blake, The Grey Monk

Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster . . . for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. -- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

To fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement. This is a paradox; whoever defeats a segment of the Empire becomes the Empire; it proliferates like a virus, imposing its form on its enemies. Thereby it becomes its enemies. -- Philip K. Dick, Valis


You become what you hate and this is the truth of it, some will never become it and they'll never need it none and some will not understand it, as with all paths set by thomas the rhymer, we will enter them all and intertwine them in our lives until we no longer know what path we are on, unless you do. I used to think of life as this robust thing, watching my parents toil away, their days set by an unseen hand, every day the same but with small variances, something shifting, now like a koan, observing the mountain that is then isn't then is but it seemed too little, not enough madness, not enough new or different or odd or weird, too few impulses to live a full life on

And then you age, at first it feels like maturing so you go with that, 24 turning 25 feeling you want to be more of an adult, want to be taken more seriously than what you self have gotten or what you deserve so you go with it, you mature and it feels like you've reached a plateau but therein is the most grotesque of lies told by both the demons and the angels inside your mind, never forget that old and ancient saying, initiation never ends for any and all initiations ring true and will never end, progression is never halted even if it feels like it, this I should have learned instead of putting my head in the sand, to separate the intellect from the emotion, I thought I could, 22 and invincible

23 and ignorant, an ignoramus but so full of life, the desire for life, the desire to understand, never the resignation of apathy, never the despair of hope, looking at reality through tabloids eyes and laughing a drunken laugh without a trace of melancholy or sadness, we were different men and women then, my friends knew what they wanted but I was sure it would all work out in the end, I was me without compromise but somewhere in there you stopped being yourself didn't you, you forgot yourself so much and where you were that when times were good and resistance was non-existant you stopped doing what defined you, you stopped the core from turning, you stopped writing and you became just another schmuck on the line slinging food, you did your job well but you were sated, you sat and smoking weed wasn't the answer

And Now, one year before you will die, if the dreams from a particular feverish week aeons ago will hold true or will you fulfill them yourself, you understood something in your fever then but nothing you could put into words, an intuition of reaching something akin to critical mass, you can't go into your thirties asking what it's all for, what the meaning of it all is because it shouldn't matter or you should have found it by now, you should have learned when the party is truly over or when it is just biding its time to make most people go home to the dross so the remaining people can gather in the kitchen, drink red wine and smoke cigarettes

the neighbors are banging at the door
Everyone will always be too late

Faust

The big 30 seems intangible to me, even if its only a few months away.
Your writing brings up emotions and fears that I realise are there only after they are pointed out, but in a good way.

Every year I find myself an even more ridiculous parody of my teenage self, its what he would have wanted, the carnival mirror.
Sleepless nights at the chateau