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Mental Excerpts.

Perhaps I have ranted about this before, but sometimes it seems as though I at first feel an emotion or fall into a mood out of nowhere and then try and attribute it to a cause. It’s decided past tense. I preform reconstructive surgery on the past so that it supports the present. I am. Then I invent the reasons. The real causes could be anything. It could also be that there are not any, not really, just unpredictable moods and random emotions I strive to weave together with a webwork of rationale.


What is the difference between a want and a need? A want is voluntary entrance and exit. It is a sincere choice. A need tricks you into investing into it and makes the experience of getting out excruciating. It is a malicious force. It leaves you in withdrawals, in a world overshadowed by endless pangs of writhing agony. True love, if it exists in my definition, must be an expression of want, not of need. Love is only slavery if we need and do not want. You only know love is true when one remains despite not needing you anymore. Typically they leave before you stop needing them. We all grow rather slowly…


People forget what it was like in their former positions all too quickly, all too completely. Adults with children. Bosses with underlings. Its sad, really, for this should really be the easiest means of empathy.


6:13 AM, Thursday: flashback bitchslaps again. Now I’m judging myself for being arrogant about saying sarcastically, “People still read books?” when I saw her reading yesterday. Like some goddamn elitist or something. I also feel arrogant about telling him “I know I’m right!” the other day.


Somewhere along the line, I lost sight, thinking it was my duty to please everyone, that it was my job not to offend. I would never ask you to censor yourself for me, choke back opinions, come down with the disease to please. Being honest does not always require being an asshole — but shit does happen…


Give me someone to vote for that isn’t already bought and paid for by lobbyists or aren’t the puppets for whatever insipid religion they’re wed to.


You’re not having a conversation with me. You’re having a conversation with yourself out loud to me. I listen. You are dead to me. I am little more than a smiling, nodding prop. A bobble-headed mannequin.


Every layer peeled reveals another. Knots below the skin remain, knots left to untie. No more kneeling down, head hung; no more bending over for the world. Lines have been drawn, bled the ink myself. I have a right to be just as you do. I have the right to live, think, feel how I want to. To say and do what I want to.


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