This Quaint Monstrosity that Pillages Our Names

All the things that once had no names have now been claimed. Every single thing. Every single atom, pin in space, and thought in mind is processed. They will sift every thought there is, every thought I have. Even this. Each and every character you’re reading has been owned, each word a mark. All sentences cloned in its proper embrace, by workings wrought out to parallel it all, like an anti-universe, with its skin bearing the toughest structural fibers in any accumulated existence, with the most toxic, acerbic substances, of the most grueling, aggressively despicable disposition. I know they’re here, waiting for me to finish, so they can shred each body I pen with their digital teeth.

It is a gloom condition. So gloom I write this not to someone, not to anyone, not now. I perhaps am writing to my sanity but not for his sake, let alone his chance of redemption or retribution. But I pen this for those that have past. For what could’ve been, what should’ve, for a hope that is now extinct. I know. There is no other path. A hermetically sealed tunneled blackholed existence is my only expanse, arrowed by a force not my own.

And to what end? In this regard, I have nary an insight they know for sure, and if they don’t know no one does, but what I’m sure of is this end is one that we’ll all share in its wonderment and horror. It exist and it waits to be revealed, but I won’t call it hope. Hell and hope, it might devour us all.

But to you, whomever reads this, know that exiling from the wicked naming of all things, that which comes anew or have as of yet remain unclaimed, will be your tragic undoing. If a ship is one we all share, one we all have to share, for it sails us all from destruction and death, and though no one would protest if you would like to die out of your own accord, jumping ship will also bring pirates into the deck and crew. They are slinking panthers that move in side-swept ways, that plant their claws and roots, to only drill themselves deeper and to then cultivate a stern permanent base. If you don’t claim, unwilling to name and defend, then why would it be yours? How can it be ours, and thus who really took away the right to use and to flourish from what has been named? Your community is your direct reality, and it’s as well as you maintain it. Take attention to your occupation, what is occupying you, then look to the negative space that occupies everything else, including the negative spaces inside you, because you then can imagine someone claiming it, wanting it, fighting for it, and because I’m sure, they are doing this. If you leave the problem for more pleasant pastures, you’re unwillingly helping the cultivation of the problem. The world is a big enough spaceship but it is limited. Sooner or later the world will be small enough for this thing to permeate beyond the limit, gaining a grip of all, only to toughen in time. A simple denial based on distance undermines and denies the real future in process. Time is a much elusive but a more important factor to consider, no matter how pleasant the direct vision of these pastures may illude.

And this problem has been evolving at a different rate than ever before, from an unfamiliar nature… Not a good mix of attributes for us. It would always seem like the newest face of death, of a new paradigm, perhaps even seemingly innocuous, with the gentlest touch and the sweetest kiss, a shining Cheshire kiss and smile from darkness, a coup de grâce that brings other vultured factors in its wake. Perhaps you saw it in the form of the firm aftermath and the rust of an ironclad grip of policy, a process that I can almost sense it being quietly ethical in nature, stemming from ideals now manifested, but not from an ethic we all have shared but from a private out-of-this-species ethical system, privy to its own laws of preservation. Because it is everywhere and in every facet and in multiple forms existing at the same time, its form depends on your mental state and what and how you’re looking into at the time. There was a time you couldn’t see it at all. Its skin turned from the toughest and acerbic, to that of an acidic illusion, a seriously convincing camouflage, unless touched, and no one seemed to notice the transition. Having that first sighting is like witnessing a bizarre a Schrödinger’s Beast in its effect, on one possible scenario bearing a Cerberus with heads working in all matters, protector of it and devourer of you and everything that is you, on another possibility it bears the faces of Janus, granting your meekness with exchanges and negotiations, you need not be the wiser. If it gets to this point, where it is the master of its magic, effectively seeming senseless while owning the sense of all, the shine of hope is no more.

I can only look into the backside side of the future assigned to me, or look back to reverse engineer the sequences of these processes that morphed our history to the very sense of the word and the lives of all.

I look not into myself, not inward. I look to describe, I look for us all, most importantly to you.

I say to you young exiler of the past, something tells me you left because you weren’t ready to defend. Maybe you haven’t had been conscious of the possibility this quaint monstrosity even existed and was actively looking for you and wanting to procure you, to your core, to your deeming of what was your soul, for eternity, to no end, even the thought that you are you is remote, a process indeed. Oblivious with your happiness and contentment, you may had been an unwilling vessel to this monster. Maybe you have been conscious, and your flight or fight response is prominent, finding yourself elsewhere not because you didn’t find yourself in where you were, but because an outside element was changing that which you identify yourself with. I beseech you to reconsider this now by visualizing the effects of these acts, for the sake of this macabre state of affairs that seem to us as pragmatic as night and day.

Get yourself together.

It isn’t a revolution. It isn’t a gathering of troops. But it is. With you. No mirrors necessary. Just reflection; the idea of what a mirror does. Feel unimportant, get yourself some dignity, gather a legacy. You can construct it at your whim. Get yourself together. Get your thoughts together. Make sure you put it together the way you really want them, for it is you and you will love them. If you can’t, try a little harder. Steal from elsewhere if you have to. Appropriate. And in the same token, be ever vigilant, limber, and absorb new information with an open mind. Exercise new ideas. Experiment. Make great mistakes to learn from them. Adjust triumphantly. Practice. Drill yourself out. Persist with the musings of permanent greater pastures for all in the long run. Drop what is not needed or lags you behind. The only weight I see worth carrying are your most practical tools, the tools that chisel the most you in the sharpest shape. Get your cells together. Gather some guts and balls. Gain muscle, brawn. Gain yourself a spine, even if you have to squeeze each disc into alignment, even if you have to stack one vertebrae on top of another at a time. Rub the doubt and denial out of your eyes. Roll those sleeves up. Strap those boot laces tight. Reboot your mind with the world. Brace yourself. Enjoy the fight, because we have to win it.

Everything depends on you.


Sent from his TintedMirror.

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1 Response to This Quaint Monstrosity that Pillages Our Names

  1. Pingback: The Monstrosity Commences | The Enigmatic Monster Project

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