It’s all in the associations, you know. You say wrists I think volleyball. But what’s in your mind?
Serious tho.
And if you think that’s fucked up, here’s the scary part: my associations were not only programmed in hell, but they were designed to switch depending on the observer.
Make sense? I hope so, because I feel like this is my last chance to make sense to people who came from the other side of the tracks.
To get through hell, I didn’t have any steadfast associations. No loyalty to seeing things one way or another. I separated, you know.
I reflected. Not deflected. Not projected. I reflected what I saw.
The approach had some big flaws. On this plane, who was I living so ironically? Who was I if I was nothing to be everything at once?
I mirror what you cannot see, what you need in order to keep climbing up your path.
Should I stop?
What does stop mean to you? Wait, don’t think about the answer. Too late? Shit, now you get it.
I don’t know how to be different. This is the way I’ve done things for a while. My armor looks weird.
I drew the short straw. I was not in the control group. And we were pitted against each other. Over and over and over.
Even though, before I was born, I chose to come back as one who would withstand great suffering, I also chose to forget because that’s part of life on this plane.
And I get caught up like anyone else.
Have you ever heard of an acid guide? A person who stays sober to travel with another as they get high on an acid trip? It was big, so I hear, in the 60s.
Fucking around in people’s minds. Walking ahead on those pathways with a lamp, playing God simply because they were given permission.
I grew up in these circles. I was raised there. Never on this earth in this body have I been without interference.
Now, is that a belief planted or the truth? What is truth? Outside of God. And what is God really to anyone shown that He can be mimicked?
How am I supposed to feel safe with a bomb in my head? Who has been answering my prayers? Why won’t you show yourself?
If it’s one who knows about these things, how can I trust?
And how can I live in the arms of one who does not know about mind bombs?
When I don’t know every single cue that could set it off, when I haven’t worked out the antidote to each pocket of arsenic?
When I have yet to live intimately with anyone who knows how to code and hasn’t harmed me.
(the image above comes from A CLOCKWORK ORANGE)
tendrilwise 