Would you rather a story which keeps it honest, or one completely divorced from reality?
For the last shot of years I preferred the latter for obvious reasons: why bitter yourself with a fictional coup de grâce?
Now well versed in isekais and stupid tropes, there’s at least one thing certain: there’s only one sweet way to word things. There’s only way to end things: to never end them at all.
As with every college campus so there’s a large grass courtyard. At the head was a bundle of trees to hang hammocks around. A popular destination for the first years, or the devoted ones before carted off into the job market anyway.
With night descending so an array of amber lamplighting kept those wide, concrete, paralleled paths steady. On either side, shuttle launch pending. Toward the end – beyond some traffic – was a Domino’s sign amidst the usual hotel plaza. Step half back and it seems like the perfect place, right in the center, to kneel down and beg for some forgiveness. Maybe bury yourself in the evenly cut grass.
The college halls are all empty now – if filled, filled with a creature I wouldn’t know, even though I was such a creature many years ago. The schoolgirl’s skirt epitomizes the coquettish display dodging a cruelty unbound: housing a sickness you hope to leave unfound.
Crushing paper, seeing how much you could. Condensing it into some pellet only to drop it into our orchestrated landfill delivery. Linear algebra feels pretty useless now.
There’s a null space between having no desires but no enlightenment either.
I wish I could want something. I’m not sure what to want.
Sometimes you can use anger to want things. Sometimes I get jealous of people who believe in something enough to parade about it. Parading it around probably does little in the end. Or not. Ring me when you got a float to share maybe.
I mean, I guess it’s cool to stand for something. But since all the world is controlled by intelligent family trees talking in funny codes, oh well.
No need to necessarily stand with a straight back for anything amidst the apparently dying empire (hah~!).
A Seagull’s cry is relaxing if anything.
I guess the only thing to desire securely is some sort of progress. No matter how much you drown your head out with harsh noise, the radio cure still comes out with some muffles of nonsense.
Maybe in the future there’ll be specialized lobotomies for the self-referential sickness that captured everyone. I guess that’s something to hate.
There’s nothing left to lose; or a whole lot, but of that parking lot so it’s the closest: the ones where if you landfill it then you’re violating the last decency left. Maybe it’s insolence to paint it that way. May as well let the streetlights swallow you.
The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free: th’Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; Better to reign in hell than serve in heav’n.