My fear of the unknown finds more suspension in my weakness than it is in my strength. Last I recall the process of withdrawal from the trauma of depression was excruciatingly torturous and, like barbiturates, induces me to commit foul travesties of mediocrity and uselessness and temporary stupor of mind and body. Luck has never found its way towards me. If ever she had any plans of reconciliation then heaven forbid she failed miserably in her objective and to that I give to her a big middle finger in her sore excuse of a slut of a face. Never have I found something as hypocritical as faith in all things good. There exists no such idea. This false claim was revamped from old epic folk tales of a hero that stands between what it is that serves as good and evil. Hardly many people fail to think such a marvellous thought could prevail at first glance. Everyone anticipates a closed ending where the protagonist always claims his birthright victory over the gargantuan evil entity opposite of what this purported hero stands for. For what reasons does this fragile balance ever stands between the way of destiny? There is no one answer, of course. Not even a god can anticipate the outcome. The error of judgment will be the legacy of the foolish. One must stand for what he believes for, good it is or not. Unfortunate that I stand where all these paradoxes dare not flourish. I am my own genre now. Nothing can classify me other than what my soul classifies its self on its own. Suffice to say, the mirror of the universal truth now lies in the ability to forge what others have before us. In accordance to great artists I dare say this has far gone too long to linger and await being stolen. Allow me to be the bearer of evil. This will be my ultimate sacrifice to mankind. My own personal Jesus mission. What others have miserably failed in the past will be vindicated by my actions now, and what vindications that arise are solely based by my ability to succeed. My mouth will be the bearer of badwill as opposed to the goodwill of the masses. A goodwill that has already prolonged in its power. With nothing to oppose it, it now ceases to be productive and that I cannot dare accept. My spit will be the prime catalyst of crime and corruption. Plunder is my ultimate prize. World domination will be at hand. Politics will cease to exist, except in a form of what I choose to mould it into. This is my promise to everyone before the day I pass away. My soul will be your soul and your soul is mine forever. The memories will bear offspring of goblins which only lives and breathes for my sole purpose. Walk of life will vastly differ from the current disposition. Wilful opposition sprout and will be immediately exterminated. English Socialism will live on for eternity and be ubiquitous as that of your own genitalia. My gift of grace to the endless reciprocity of tasteless love and vanity that consumes the generations to generations.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.