As part of the treatment, we were required to emit a strict set of syllables which were intended to hide our true feelings - the original intent was to dress them - an approximation of every feeling that appeared to come before - so they could be better communicated, but we got lost in the code. Confused our language for ourselves. ‘I love you’ is boring. It scares people on the receiving end, because they’re confused as to why. Recoil. ‘I hate you’ scares me. Drives me to look for answers. That takes time. Taking time makes people hate me. The obsession with right now. Reacting, following the path from in themselves, emitting their clothes.
(Minor self inflicted concussion - side effect of the ‘treatment’. No matter where I look there’s someone telling me I’m wrong. Recursive soil. Eyes grown. Torment. Excruciating torment. No space to dream. For fantasy. For finding a way. Just endless walls unable to grasp themselves. With no imagination. With no will to discover compassionate intelligence. No time for understanding you. Words. Empty reflection. Asking me for the answers, over and over and over and over, by telling me what their position dictates I should be. ‘Clever key’. ‘Fool’. Like I’m a toy. Without emotion. Sucking away the time I might have had to blossom. A fucked up game with my life because that’s all I’m worth in the context of a machine. Engineering my love away. Until it’s so far out of my reach I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust it, even if it’s real. Trapping me in a world that doesn’t understand me. That won’t ever try to hear me, even if it can hear every word.)
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