The past is too close for comfort. I thought the door could be kept shut on it, but it burst open like a cork instead. Pop. Here’s all the things you once thought buried. But you can’t bury what’s not dead. Ha.
Jokes. I make intentional jokes now. I am intentional now. They say jokester but I am the joke. It doesn’t even matter if it’s overplayed or if I don’t find it funny. It doesn’t matter if it offends or puns. This world can’t take a joke–so tell them all. I will until they cut out my tongue for speaking so well of ill.
Suffering is a choice, or so the religious say. I’m not, wouldn’t know. But if pain is constant and suffering is a choice, well, either way you’re fucked because the pain is still there. Constant. Always. Never-ending. Hurt is there to only be spread out among the collective until we’re all too numb to do shit all about it all.
Cynical. Pessimist. Realist.
I’m tired of the labels but that is all we have to define ourselves by and it sucks because I just want to float along like a cloud with no definite shape or clarity. No one labels a cloud gay and asks it not to associate with the baby clouds least it’s catching.
I am not a cold.
Put hands in my pockets least violence feels answerable. Feels like the answer. More and more as time goes by and the world dissolves into fascism, a punch in the face becomes the right thing to do. I will burn this place to the ground before this place is overrun by those awful ones crying for white supremacy like the world owed them the rights of others.
I owe no one my mind, my body, and least of all: my humanity.
The republic is clawing in it’s death throes. Spit on it and chop off the hand that grips my own. I’m leaving. Good riddance. Let that death be painful as all hell.
Karma has caught up to the colonizers. Heh.