Epic Phail

Another day of facing the tragedy that is my inability to carry more than two minutes in a TF2 game without being totally butchered, another disappointing moment of realization that I am a total loser for being down about it, another night of thinking about the person to whom I hold with endless regard, more poems, more pictures flying through my mind, and all I have to show for the infinite mind-explosion I’ve just had is the knowledge that none of it matters. Fragments of space and matter collide to manifest what we turn into petty, ugly things with our linty pockets and our grubby fingers with particles of sand and mud caked beneath the gnawed away nails, elements only created within the most violent and serene instances alike within the boundless universe imaginable are given meanings of disgust and filth, making me sick to think that concient beings hold each other in positive regard by comparison to them, only due to their perverse nature of being possessed. I love her. She is not the reproductive organ of a plant, a body of flowing water, a source of breathable atmosphere, nor is she any other animal than of the human species. I don’t need to rhyme, I don’t need to count syllables, I don’t need to use clever repetitions or puns. I don’t need a melody to express the way I feel, nor do I need words. All that I should ever need to do to express my love is to feel it, not caring about receiving it likewise. What pains me most, perhaps, is that she is the epitome of perfection, the perfect person by any use of the phrase, yet all that I love her for grows from the roots of those wretched things that plague humanity’s kind most unkind. The greatest destructive forces of the human mind and body cradles her untouched soul-ore, waiting to be abused by the world of innocently violent apes that probe and molest everything without a moment’s notice, to allow that which created her to finish its deed of encompassing our race in the abyss that it spawned from. Those who don’t know men know not the evil that men do, and those who know men know not the evil that men think. Those who are men know no what evil that they are, and those who are not men are implements of destruction, tools to the expense of man’s folly. What a fool she makes me feel when my pulse races and my breathing stops as I see her face, and hear her voice as she speaks, and see her eyes as she looks at me, or the things she tells me, as insignificant as they are. For so much time I’d let my muse to rest, but now things are different. Damn it, I couldn’t get around it, could I? I couldn’t have found a way to avoid the confrontations. At least my self image is very well unimportant. So long as I know the true self from the role I play, I’ll be in an agreeable state. Many times those I trick into thinking I am myself trick me in turn, and I must trick them into questioning the way I perceive myself in order to remember that nothing is as it isn’t. Relentless. My thoughts never stop. I never leave a single thing. My ideas are never my own, but the actors hold their lines so very well, so well that I’d never know if they are giving me the ideas I often trick myself into thinking are my own. Everything connects, nothing ends, all is revolutionary, and all is for not. The cycle. The infinity. The plane. We/I/You/It/That/Who [of] which that is and is not is everything and nothing simultaneously, and inconsistently incurring. I won’t ask the questions for you, but I should let you know that I know what they would be. One of the answers is “no.” This is the clearest way that I may communicate my thoughts as they occur. Not that I need to communicate them, and in that respect, nor do I ever truly communicate anything according the meaning that I am told communication holds. You may act like you don’t know what I mean, and you know that I am aware that you understand what I mean by that when I type, and you likewise pretend to read this for the first time, that there is nothing to communicate. The illusion that you uphold of individuality and conscious thought is all quite elaborate. I might offer that the illusion end now to benefit those who find the task difficult, but that would signify that that which I have stated to be unintentional, and even the act of typing at all in order to make motions for communication with forces outside of my mind shows how I may have tricked myself permanently into thinking that the reality I see before me is no longer the cardboard town I saw it to be. Perhaps this illusion is a creation of my own mind, conflicting with the conscious state of mind that I think that I am using now in order to maintain a balance of physical logic and mental logic, so that a permanent flux stays in constant balance. To attempt to measure by any means the scale of how much “stuff” I take up, matter, dark matter, and antimatter alike, is a task that limits my physical sense of logic, and permits the flux to ensue, as my mind enters and exits the state in which it is now, probing and molesting that which I love and hold dear. I shudder to think, I hate everything about myself, to even allow the possibility to enter my mind, that I should ever be so vile, through my own eyes, to the most important person… and I remember the beetle. My first documentation of my destructive nature. When I outlined the basic properties of the nature of man’s folly. The tragedy is me. I am my own… the gods of everything in the infinite realities… the children that pick apart the dying bodies of insects that twitch and fiddle as they fight impossible odds, knowing that the battle will kill them with more agony to show for… my own worst enemy… the cruel author who writes himself into every story just to torture and destroy everything about himself… judge, jury, and executioner. I frag mself. Total pwnage. Mi mind is epic phail.