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02/07/12(Tue)11:47 No.5466073You wonder what you really have control over. The world carries on around you; would carry on without you. The human race is just a blip in time, a footnote in the history of the universe, and yet you keep going because there’s nothing else for it. Your footsteps, your direction are out of your control, decided years before you were born, years before anyone was born. It’s not normal, this life: something is rotten. There’s a tumour; malignant, growing, pushing out all the common sense, the patience. There’s the madness, that rush, and no free seconds to reflect, not anymore. All we can do is study the past, because deep down we know our future achievements will be vile. The feet just keep on walking, to where, no-one knows. Nobody wants to know. You realise there’s something wrong when your eyes don’t want to open in the morning. There’s no window in your bedroom anyway, no sunlight to stir the body; just blackness, and the musty smell of old clothes, and stale smoke, and rotten food. And when you do move, your bones hurt. They creak, like a rusted machine turned on after years of retirement. You open the door and those eyes that barely open water weakly at the light – you stink, smell the way a person does after weeks without washing, but you don’t want to wash. There’s no shame, not when people look at you with disgust – your breath, it smells of carrion and death, but you don’t brush your teeth because you want to smell that way. Why pretend? We are what we are: this is what humanity is without the sanitisation, the make-believe, the mask. |