Self-Subjugation

To fall victim to the parallax of mirrors spinning wildly in your mind is nothing short of troublesome. The funhouse we built like a maze has become the ultimate detriment—a fate beyond cumbersome. Our beings come forth, and refract into an array of misnomers. What is there to remember when we have spent our time forgetting our special midsummers.

Sacrifice yourself to the hazardous tempo of existing beyond human perception. Place your bets and gamble for better intentions. The stars will always align and force us into ludomania. The sky whispers candy in our sleep, bringing forth our subconscious insomnia. Tomorrow harks for more of your truth, ignoring all the walls you’ve built for every degree in your circle. Become less of a pink illusion, and gradient towards the most divine shade of purple. You are royalty born in the flesh. Hubris, wrath, and envy plague your court, but you do not falter despite this unwieldy mess. Cast shadows much larger than the ones in your mind. In the four walls of your mind, leave behind the memories that have long died.

Die to be reborn, or at least see to it that you are, in fact, yourself. Move like the cadence of poetry books that people have passed by through rows of shelves. Stare into others with the essence of Renaissance, ringing everyone’s internal church bells. Succumb to the erudite consciousness that has been stagnant, slowly weathering into a medieval well. Incite a religion with beliefs that spring from the depths of your psychology. No matter if you’re ten years, decades, or centuries older than the average mind, transfigure into your own definition of a prodigy. Bury your dead shells seven-hundred acres beneath the soil, and pray a vocal elegy. Nosedive straight into the cesspool of insanity, and choose to inspire magnanimity.

Exaggerate until you are simplified. Emancipate until you are satisfied. Indoctrinate until the world becomes petrified. Insinuate until everyone is terrified.

Perhaps this insistence to change for better has become malevolent, bordering on the cliffs of insidious. However, we are more than the words given to us from the second of our conception. We deserve the extravagance of being content. We deserve the contentment of being liberated. We deserve the liberation of being enough. And even if the fallacies of the moment stir whirlwinds that force our nerves to writhe in agony, we persevere with hope that our faith in ourselves will push us beyond “just fine.”

Happiness is a murderer with several victims, and sadness is a saviour with several clients. The cathartic cycles of our personal embodiments fall flat on a whim. Keep it together, even if you have wrapped yourself with hair-thin floss. Walk with all the fractures gained from every single loss. Find what matters before you could even know its cause.

Reality has a way of telling us that in theory, we matter. In practice, however, we are strung tightly to the conditions of others.

Self-subjugation shows us the silence between the noise that others fail to see. It has read between our every line before we even came to be.

Understand that in the end, beyond every atom of our insignificance, we deserve to be free.

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hallucinating on command.

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thanatomania.

thanatomania.

hallucinating on command.

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