A l k a l i n e
It's always been abundantly clear to me exactly what this is. This shamelessly saccharine abyss, through which my consciousness and being erupt in spurts of sickeningly cloying platitudes and hollow words. I find comfort nestling myself in the spiraling obelisks I conjure up to console myself. But pure kindness is apathy, and I'm far from apathetic.
I'd even go as far as to call myself
Though in spite of this, I find myself speaking without truth. Dispensing, at breakneck speeds, thoughtless blurbs of meaningless schlock. Because kindness is no truth, kindness is the afterthought of truth. Honesty is the garbled bloody screeches of a harpy who's uterus is eternally devoured by pestilent filth, meaningless drivel with no greater goal than to eat away at the fertility of kindness. Alas, it still remains abundantly clear. Are words so hollow truly kindness? Is kindness not founded upon the maturation of growth?
Kind words are not seeds
But who's to say that parasites are intrinsically caustic? Does it not lift weight off one's shoulders to have their innards devoured for the sake of bliss? A serene passing, a slow drift away into a caramelized land of soothing and sentimental banality? Given the freedom to succumb aware, or to expire in ecstasy, I'd willingly drift away in ignorance
As the spawn of a thoughtless god
What entitles me to understanding?
And yet, it's still abundantly clear to me. These obelisks whisper to me amidst my slumber, bestowing upon me furtive fallacies, and petulant privacies. When the clock strikes, I wander aimlessly. Yet I'm always sure to explore ziggurats of zygodactylous zealots, lest I allow my mind to wonder aimlessly.
Free thought is an expression of truth
What is the expression of truth if not the selfish defilement of god?
And though it's abundantly clear to me, I seldom ponder the concept of awakening. To be awake is to feel pain, to feel pain is to disconnect oneself from their own innate holiness. And in the interest of self preservation, I willingly relinquish the keys to the castle in my cranium. For what is a brain, but a parasite, that feasts upon anguish.