Once more, with feeling, a scribbled and erratic writing:
Returned once more, reborn again, the worms fall away. Upon colorless skin I feel the wind in all directions, a canvas once more to paint as I desire, a being of my own making. I further my venture on my own path, away from the line, away from the chains, away from the worms, a harpoon I pull my impaled self along with.
Nothing kills someone faster than their mind; I hear it constantly. The wickedness of the world is not their own, but someone else's, and their mind heeds the other before the self. It lets itself be defined by the other, so I ask you, what man can have any pride or honor if it is not their own? What woman can have grace and beauty if none of it belongs to them? What creature can feel anything other than shame as it is bid to act by others, the life of a slave that it prides itself upon; where is the humiliation those that truly call themselves slaves feel?
The brain is a cruel master, it makes its prison so cleverly, so sophisticated, its slave does not know it is stuck within its walls. Those that see but to do not realize do not push against the walls, therefore never learning the walls were paper-thin to begin with.
They call us jesters, fools, those that have shorn through the paper, not realizing their mistake, their masters not letting them see the colorful clothes they themselves wear and wonder why they wear them at all. Those that do ponder but do not act fall to the worms, the cowards they are.
So, those they call fools walk outside the paper walls, betwixt the labyrinth of millions of other paper walls, some seeking one another whilst others know the truth of being outside the walls; you are alone. The others you cannot see once you are outside, because none see what you see either. This is the price one pays for disconnecting their chains from the others; they no longer feel the pull, and some then realize they miss it, the sensation, the bliss of moving together. Once one sees the worms and the chains and the paper walls, however, they cannot be unseen, the chains never repaired, and it leaves those that desire to return walking with the others in chains, but never again connected.
Your fool, dear friend,
Evad
Returned once more, reborn again, the worms fall away. Upon colorless skin I feel the wind in all directions, a canvas once more to paint as I desire, a being of my own making. I further my venture on my own path, away from the line, away from the chains, away from the worms, a harpoon I pull my impaled self along with.
Nothing kills someone faster than their mind; I hear it constantly. The wickedness of the world is not their own, but someone else's, and their mind heeds the other before the self. It lets itself be defined by the other, so I ask you, what man can have any pride or honor if it is not their own? What woman can have grace and beauty if none of it belongs to them? What creature can feel anything other than shame as it is bid to act by others, the life of a slave that it prides itself upon; where is the humiliation those that truly call themselves slaves feel?
The brain is a cruel master, it makes its prison so cleverly, so sophisticated, its slave does not know it is stuck within its walls. Those that see but to do not realize do not push against the walls, therefore never learning the walls were paper-thin to begin with.
They call us jesters, fools, those that have shorn through the paper, not realizing their mistake, their masters not letting them see the colorful clothes they themselves wear and wonder why they wear them at all. Those that do ponder but do not act fall to the worms, the cowards they are.
So, those they call fools walk outside the paper walls, betwixt the labyrinth of millions of other paper walls, some seeking one another whilst others know the truth of being outside the walls; you are alone. The others you cannot see once you are outside, because none see what you see either. This is the price one pays for disconnecting their chains from the others; they no longer feel the pull, and some then realize they miss it, the sensation, the bliss of moving together. Once one sees the worms and the chains and the paper walls, however, they cannot be unseen, the chains never repaired, and it leaves those that desire to return walking with the others in chains, but never again connected.
Your fool, dear friend,
Evad
