What We Are and What We Choose Not To Be

If there was anything more dangerous than the uncertainty of your goals, it would be where you were headed in the painful long -run.

The strange threads of time can become undone or lost into the deepest oblivion of the subconscious, never willing to resurface themselves as to spare the beholder a less tragic fate, to press on with daily activities and recreational things, events that would steer them into the right direction instead of wrong; constant reminder that they are good and willing to pursue life not as a goal, but a dream.

When those threads begin to sew their accursed fabric back together at the most inconvenient of times, what is the holder to do, sit back and watch the world crumble or watch themselves fall apart into the artwork that is their quilt?

We listen as the masses speak of equality and social status', but when the feeling of no social class or equality can surface, what does one do? They begin to define themselves at not themselves; as strangers that no one else could ever picture falling apart, the mystery within the mystery.
 
How we laugh and smile at the harmless and inconsequential jokes our peers make! How we laugh along with them and share the foolish grin upon their perfectly contrived faces, unknowing there is a mask that smiles back at them! Oh the delight in wondering how simple things become a complex figure in the minds of the many independent fools we face!

Nothing is ever how it seems from behind the mask of the holder, the one whose quilt has been thread in a difficult, constricted manner as to choke the sympathy out of it in small cross stitches known otherwise as mistakes.

The mistakes sometimes however can become the very fabric inside the quilt, revealing all those previous endeavors that ended in failure of consequence. What do we do with it, you ask? We burn it! Like others would do to a stained sheet of memories too painful to stare at every time their heads lay on the very pillow they know as comfort. The quilt is remade from the burnt fibers in a desperate attempt to reconstruct itself to it's former pleasant glory, only to create a hideous mis-stitched monster only the broken can believe in.

How do you conceive such a broken being or such monstrosity? You stare at one everyday, the one with the mask of gold and the eyes of emerald stone. Do you truly believe what the things they say isn't filtered through the sheet of wire across their mouth before it is released unto your tiny ears? They only want to be heard in a positive context, hiding the things that are sucked back down into the air canal for only them to ponder meticulously in their own minds, almost unable to decipher this message themselves without the help of their own creations.

All you see is a husk of which you would call a friend or acquaintance, bless you dearly if you consider them to be a member of your own flesh and blood! How the insides can be unraveled as ribbons to reveal the disconcerting bowels of empty hatred and lies! Oh these things must be kept hidden so well inside the mannequin, how it does crack before your very eyes!

Are you blind to it's suffering? Are you deaf to it's shrill screams of pleasurable disease? Isn't it best this way, as it is to leave the dying embryo within the womb of the mother?

Never again will you face this contrived disgruntled creature, for it is hiding underneath a wall of bricks and sharpened tacks for all to step on. How you enjoy the puppet you play with everyday, not wondering once where the strings are leading! They are of no concern to the observers, the mask is what they want to see, the shine of teeth sparkling as though it washes away the very darkness inside of it's tortured soul! HOW HAPPY IT IS! HOW MISUNDERSTOOD ARE IT'S EMBELLISHED FEELINGS!

Aren't we all happy for this one who hides? Isn't it a joy to see how it writhes underneath the weight of the world and your own as well? Aren't we GLAD it's suffering isn't alleviated to fall onto your own shoulders? How GENEROUS it is to us! HOW GENEROUS AND LOVING IT IS! Why don't we applaud it's ability to carry all our weight on it's back? Come one now, clap! Clap for the miserable beast of burden as it makes it's slow trek over broken tiles and wishes!

How proud we are as a people. People of a twisted and dazzling world of ideals and expectations. Could you fathom becoming this beautifully scarred creature of the mind? OF COURSE NOT. Why would you wish to succumb to the breaches of your own mental capacities as this creature does?

...  

How it loathes you. It loathes the way you speak and smile, it sneers at the laughter in your words and actions, wishing to see you break like the tear made of glass and sulfur. It watches you when you walk, when you cry, when you are at your most vulnerable. Time and time again it PICKS YOU UP from falling into the disaster it only is known to live in.

"IS THERE NO ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS?"

Those cries go unheard on deaf ears as they twist away to the latest attraction that proves to be more understanding to their strangely simplistic lives, something that can throw a blanket of sheer metal on top of the poor creature to quell it's horrible shrieks and moans.

How it loves you. Loves you for dimming the suffering and bending it's fragile figure until it's bones break. It waits for the pleasant numbness to take over it's hollow frame and waits in deep regret for the day it resurfaces, bringing the pain along with it, recycling as though a washer turned onto reset after sitting so long in a crumpled heap.

You wonder who indeed this poor beast is, the self-loathing disgusted failure of our very imaginations is. That beast lives in those of perfect lives, with perfect jobs, with perfect households. Oh do we enjoy telling ourselves that! It's FINE, no one will notice! It's OKAY, someday it will all dissolve into a pile of ashes and miscellaneous riff-raff, letting us be who we are!

We never were without those debris, without the quilt, without the subconscious beast of burden. Our existence becomes only to serve and obey the ones who make those decisions that bend fabric and weave with disturbing melancholic fervor. The delightfully chilling tidal waves of numb emotion are accepted as an orphan reunited with it's half-hearted family.

Do we exist?

Yes.

Do you know us?

Yes.

Do you understand us?

No.
 
Do you want to?

We wouldn't allow it, for the acceptance of another to carry the weight is clearly a curse upon ourselves as those who create false sympathies and happiness for others to enjoy.

So stay in your little worlds as we build them up for you and hold it together so it doesn't break like ours had done long ago. Smile at the masks that smile back, saying all the right things that they know is not their own. Does it makes you happy? Of course it does. We makes sure you hear all the right little pieces of information and judgement to get your life back on the correct path to freedom of mind.

Too bad no one did that for us.
Too bad we wander in a listless dream.
Too bad we refuse to die.