(no subject)
Know what it is? I'm letting them win. I'm letting all of them win. I've got a cauldron of hate stewing in me, yet I'm letting them win. Like nails on a chalkboard or cat's claws in my back, I'm letting them drag me down. I'm not a mop of dead hair on a toupee, I'm not a piece of fine upholstery on the curb. I'm a human fucking being, and by God I will not let them draw blood. My only problem is that-for all of my defenses, for my supposedly thick hide and duck feathers that let it all roll off my back-I've no arsenal to attack with and no filthy assistants of my own. I'm no boss, no leader; I'm not even a rogue of any sort, lithe and wily and cunning. I can't do it on my own and I'm weaponless. The infestation is creeping and there isn't a single can of killer left on the shelf. They've bored themselves like maggots into the pillars I'd erected around myself. I built them because I don't nearly stand as tall.
It seems like dominoes, having them all take each down one by one, peg by peg, like bowling pins in a strike. Nobody's trying to snuff me out individually or bring down my shields to do it (I haven't got that paranoia); it's all just the happenstance of the stinking tendrils of society's evil smog reaching out and curdling the nuggets of cream and sugar in my life. Everybody's affected, but now it's hitting close to home.
Lethargy. Apathy. Let's-call-it-a-day. That when a suffering young woman phones in for her week-delayed test results, she has to specify it's cancer she's being tested for to get someone to answer her. If she asks too many questions or knows too much, if she threatens your poorly-maintained title of Doctor by questioning your dismissive diagnoses, you chuck her a bottle of mind-mush capsules. You send her away with pills so you don't have to do another check up because your Hippo-fucking-cratic oath just isn't in your heart anymore, is it? It's lost somewhere in an ocean of slimy shit and fizzing little happy tablets of your own. The crazy don't know they're crazy, isn't that it? Too bad it doesn't work the same way for all biological illnesses.
But on the subject of mental disorders-you know, the whole "holes in your brain" deal-you're going to dismantle that fluted column like the ruins of the Parthenon with that, aren't you? Crumbled little bits of marble that epitomized human ingenuity and imagination are all that remains under your hammer of iron, ineffable Right. It stands as a monument of scientific advances in all fields, from the heavens above and beyond to the sand and rocks and minerals beneath our feet, and from the functioning and mechanisms of the clockwork universe right down to our own very brains. Philosophy, democracy, astronomy, psychology, mathematics, chemistry, biology; a victim of its own discovery. He is Order and Reason, but you deem it Subjective. You have killed Daemon with the rest of antiquity, it seems. Under your gauntlet his name is Schizophrenia. I've told you once I can't be two-faced, so why do you call me Eve, she accused of three?
Of all this injustice and impurity, it seems the wisest to simply hide away. It's not a matter of "die trying" when you can't even put up a fight. I'd be swallowed up and eaten alive if I stepped out of bounds now. I've retracted the harpy talons, left their brooding nest, and holed up until the grenade assault stops spitting bits of stone in my eyes. I've plucked the leeches and lampreys and parasitic fleas and gnats from every pore, though they took some of my body hair with them. Some are still sucking it for delusional sustenance. I've got my hard hat, my deadbolt, my earplugs, and my own bed. There aren't any scorpions in the sheets (this time). Unfortunately, here I am, trembling beneath my blanket fort with rage, fear, and a full bladder, biding time until I can strike.
Wound up and coiled like a boa constrictor, ready to strike...
It seems like dominoes, having them all take each down one by one, peg by peg, like bowling pins in a strike. Nobody's trying to snuff me out individually or bring down my shields to do it (I haven't got that paranoia); it's all just the happenstance of the stinking tendrils of society's evil smog reaching out and curdling the nuggets of cream and sugar in my life. Everybody's affected, but now it's hitting close to home.
Lethargy. Apathy. Let's-call-it-a-day. That when a suffering young woman phones in for her week-delayed test results, she has to specify it's cancer she's being tested for to get someone to answer her. If she asks too many questions or knows too much, if she threatens your poorly-maintained title of Doctor by questioning your dismissive diagnoses, you chuck her a bottle of mind-mush capsules. You send her away with pills so you don't have to do another check up because your Hippo-fucking-cratic oath just isn't in your heart anymore, is it? It's lost somewhere in an ocean of slimy shit and fizzing little happy tablets of your own. The crazy don't know they're crazy, isn't that it? Too bad it doesn't work the same way for all biological illnesses.
But on the subject of mental disorders-you know, the whole "holes in your brain" deal-you're going to dismantle that fluted column like the ruins of the Parthenon with that, aren't you? Crumbled little bits of marble that epitomized human ingenuity and imagination are all that remains under your hammer of iron, ineffable Right. It stands as a monument of scientific advances in all fields, from the heavens above and beyond to the sand and rocks and minerals beneath our feet, and from the functioning and mechanisms of the clockwork universe right down to our own very brains. Philosophy, democracy, astronomy, psychology, mathematics, chemistry, biology; a victim of its own discovery. He is Order and Reason, but you deem it Subjective. You have killed Daemon with the rest of antiquity, it seems. Under your gauntlet his name is Schizophrenia. I've told you once I can't be two-faced, so why do you call me Eve, she accused of three?
Of all this injustice and impurity, it seems the wisest to simply hide away. It's not a matter of "die trying" when you can't even put up a fight. I'd be swallowed up and eaten alive if I stepped out of bounds now. I've retracted the harpy talons, left their brooding nest, and holed up until the grenade assault stops spitting bits of stone in my eyes. I've plucked the leeches and lampreys and parasitic fleas and gnats from every pore, though they took some of my body hair with them. Some are still sucking it for delusional sustenance. I've got my hard hat, my deadbolt, my earplugs, and my own bed. There aren't any scorpions in the sheets (this time). Unfortunately, here I am, trembling beneath my blanket fort with rage, fear, and a full bladder, biding time until I can strike.
Wound up and coiled like a boa constrictor, ready to strike...