::But you yourself are nothing so divine::
I honestly don't think I could care if I tried.
I am painting my way down the rabbit hole again. Becoming increasingly numb as I fall into the shadows. It's all I want and I feel no guilt for what I leave behind. How can I? When all I can sense is our indifference and a burning compulsion to cut myself open? I sit rigid and afraid of interference, of touch. Hands forming a likeness out of posable me. Shaping me into a portrait of someone elses mind to be hung in a memory like a trophy or more adequately, a taxidermy. For I may as well have my organs ripped out before being stuffed and mounted if I let you take me.
And I think I am expected to be grateful for something. As if I am being saved from myself. My impulsive, compulsive, irrational self. As if the life in question is being lead to an extent far greater than my own.
Yes, I am a child and I think I am owed at least one slice of adolescence by whatever power that be in retrospect. But others would act as though better when all their bones boil down to are dillusions masquerading as magnanimousness. And I too do so love to play dress up but I can still differentiate between the Child and the Monster.
If my actions are to mean something than so must yours. Do not act as though you're soul has been alleviated from the burdens and urges of humanity. As if you were to stand on the right hand side of God as he judges us meer animals as proverbial Dogs.
Your arrogance and inability to understand makes you equally as damned as I, so how dare you look down on my deeds as shit on your shoes.
Inkbaby x