Ouranophobic

What is reality?

Reality is this, people; we're just in different states of it, just living our realities in varied manner; we're all finding our own way to living life.

I believe that skepticism should be context based, because the only way we're going to solve all our insurrections is through an insurrection alone.

We're all potential psychotic bastards, rapists and serial killers, we're all fucked up in our own way, if, according to us, at least we think we are. But we are fucked.

So the big question for now, 'What is Reality?'.

So let me just make a little suggestion, reality contains rich,aristocratic bastards who can't give a shit about the downward spiral we are facing. It contains cabalistic freaks who wreck havoc and cause massive suffering. It contains people who want total perfection in the commercial, conformist living. It has the radically-religious who, in augury, commit immolation, and mercy killings, sacrifices, if you wish.

Just fucking look at Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez, Ed Kemper, Ed Gein, if you don't really know who these are, try thinking Jack the Ripper. Serial Killers that's what they fucking are.

They're not crazy, just maybe, in our morality, they're fucked up, they're criminal, they should be alienated.

So think about it, reality isn't absolution, it isn't totally defined.

Here's a quote from Bundy: When I see a girl walk on the street, one part of me wants to take her out, talk to her, be nice to her. And the other part of me, imagine what her head feels like on a stick.

To him, that is perfection, even if it means, it's morally sick.

Me, whenever I walk into a beautiful room, I think, this is missing the smell of dead flowers and cat piss, the sight of shit on the walls, and the occasional maniac, running around randomly stabbing people, they're also missing the part of where a girl is stretched, nude, hanging limp from the wall. There is no catharsis here, only reality.

Whatever happened to the age of fucked up poets and crazy artists who go killing on monday and paint about God on wednesday?

Why would people think Shakespeare wrote the best love poetry when there's Byron and Balzac?

So let my demons and gods be known to man and woman,
born of every procedure possible,
existing, existed or to be existant.
Wither not within me this antisymmetry of perfection.
My austere glimpse at absolutism:
Let my demons therefore be known,
demonic or angelic,
sesquicentennial dirges be my calling.
As my demons are asking,
"where? where is this war of yours?"
My reply
"so far up your ass, so far, it's touching your nose."
"how so? this war... how so is it up my arse?"
"because you are the ignorant, you care not for the rest of the world. You and I, we're living on different sides of reality, you're just a nabob, or probably just stupid. Your so numb to what reality is, you can't feel it up your ass."
"why? why thee choose to walketh down a bitterest path?"
"my path is not bitter, it's the sightless vision you uphold. For you, my demons, shall still die like I die, live as how I do, and be a virginal slave of reality."
So this my angels say,
"It's alright, darling, for the ignorant shall face your fate as well, the instantial fate of death, and the insanity of their unsavoured ethic. They shall face their fantasies only in their fantasy."
My demons flee, laughing, laughing like the ignorant fools they are, living their live in a third world state of mind with the pocket of unsubtle wealth, just forgetting, ignoring, unknowing reality.
I sit crying, crying because I had to give a fuck, crying because I'm so alienated, crying because I want to believe so much, I've become gullible.

I guess I'm going to call this the price of vision. For now, let me end the delirium in my own voids of sanity.