Something Small And Weak

[Scales]

The figure sits and thinks, "It's a horror, the thought of being reduced to nothing."

Unwanted chaos governed by order.

The Societal is the path you will take unwillingly, the path that will suck the humanity from you and leave you clinging to the cold masquerade of human worthlessness ever present in the antiquities left behind by the dead. The societal is the magnificent adornment that conscious beings wrap around the inevitability of death, where everything is a lie to be in indulged in. The sorrowed wholes of hollow contentment.

You wake up to the sunlight hitting your face, but it's been long since you've welcomed it. The blinding light streaming in through the room is a motivator for the cold reality of your present situation. Although you may be warm or cold, you are living in a perpetual radical temperature that excels itself into some sort of dualistic torture. It's the cold reality, the hot surface of the mold you've been forced into by the shadows of shades from colorful psychopathic ideas. In these prechewed cognitive ideas it must be the ultimate reason why the brightness of the cold reality that sits in the warm sunlight is just too much for you, for anyone.

There is a racing stream of darkness that overtakes your entire will and for a short time you question the very nature of control. The monsters that authority warned you about have long since met you, not in sin, evil, or disease: but the very nature of chaos itself has come to greet you with it's carbon copy. The voices you hear in far off echoes all distort as they hit the screen where you block your thoughts from the world; the putrid, dirty screen that locks the uninhabited pitiful creations of ideological fragments in torturous cells. Shards of infliction and double-sided hatred pierce the world and make it race with negativity.

You are damned, everything is damned and you know it. You see this damnation in the streets, in the faces of strangers like long, lost family members risen from the graves of ghost towns. Stranger's weathered faces like billboards of old hells you can only imagine. Strangers who breathe in and out the long drags of smoke or sighs of contemplation at the complexities of inconsistency and the towering, psychopathic barters that rule the world. You gain a sick, profound trust as the emptiness of chaos creeps into the vault of truth, the perfected consistency of damnation.

You find yourself rotting away in some far-off structure, isolating your thoughts until they form vibrant photographs filled with the victims of infinity. There are piles of discomfort forming a loose band of loss, objects stacked without uniform around forgotten rooms within the mind and outside of the running age. The only desire is more, the desire for more, more of everything regardless of it's worth, regardless of what it does, more to give to the mysteries of dreams. Yet in the end there is nothingness, there is meaningless, there is no discernable reason for anything but that of colorful propaganda and insane dreams.

Thus you fall deeper through the holes of skeletal inconsistencies until you someday meet the darkest, centralized presence in your own cold reality. The disconnected feelings and the detached compassion that comes from gazing at your own strange reflection. Numberless insects crawling through the ground await the inherited essence of inevitability that stares at you.

So the night dawns itself present and you restlessly struggle with your mind in the dark. You cling to hope from wherever you can find it; your hope is like the last rung on the burning ladder that separates you from demise. Through the chambers of every blackened hell there is a shard of untouched light ahead of you, this hope is the only light you have come to know as real, and somewhere beyond that shred of light is the unowned enigmas of a sold world. You fall asleep chasing yourself, hoping that you were all wrong.. and sometimes if your lucky enough, you dream it.

Wanted order sustained by chaos.

The Dream is the god you will never have and the heaven you will always long for. The unfulfilled goals and the ever-present truth that you will never reach what you really want, that such things have purposely been put out of your grasp in order to spite and mock your infinite weakness and insecurity as a human being. Your light and your hope are fabrications created to guide you through the hells that you have already become one with.

Then the figure reconsiders, "But something small, insignificant to the world, often comes out of the nothingness all around us, paralyzes the ambush of darkness and causes massive change. Something small and weak can shake the foundations of all that exists."

[Homicidalheathen]

Excellent

[Scales]

Thank ya, it's actually three different writings combined together.