Conscientious Sociopath.

I am told that service is virtuous, that sacrifice is honorable, and that obedience is right, and yet deep within I know these things sit uncomfortably. They go down to a certain point and I force them deeper, slowly through who others see me as and into who I am, but it will only go so far. They are beautiful, and to me they are false.

And so what is true? I believe in life.
Not what Bob in accounting lives, not sucking down air as a comfort blanket from your fear of death. What you enjoy for itself.
What you enjoy.

There is something that you run from for the pureness of elation it gives you. There is something that causes you to walk away from it and into the rot that exists beyond its light. “Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.” The gray and black hells you live in are your own design, they were your cold water to your face that you have suppressed with “relaxing sounds volume 3”.

If I need the world to tell me who I am, I have no soul.
And if you need me to make you hear this, I have but one piece of advice:

The first step is understanding you have a problem.

For what you see.

It occurs to me that there is a certain variability to life – a difference between the days that is just enough to keep us wondering what will happen tomorrow. People have different limits to this variability, both different intensities of hope and different spans of memory that define the level to which people need change. But we all need it. The promise of something you have never seen before is one of the most compelling reasons to open your eyes.

A consummation devoutly to be wished...

Why do people think that being an adult is about not being a child? Why do people believe that if they act like adults, people will accept their shallow façade?

With the remnants of a dream.

"I cannot be awake for nothing looks to me as it did before, Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep."

Factories.

I create because I am a machine whose product is the future, a perpetual gear leaving stamps on the ticker tape of time. I cannot but write, whether with my pen or my voice, and you are a witness to the inevitability of my momentum.

Your Road.

Every time I believe in fate I lose something I love.