Lately I’ve been fascinated with presentation above all else. For we all manicure how we appear, endlessly, and yet never study the art. The manicure is systemized, the mask is stamped upon, the brain is wired proper and here you are reading.
Shots of paranoia conferred some insight: there’s rarely little to be afraid of. Within such fear, what are you desiring in the first place?
The paper trail here reveals an alien, one who has shed all past transactions and relations, and is fending off neurosis from the first bite of rabies advertisement. Do I find some satisfaction in that? I’m not sure. But I am sure that I am beginning to see reality as it is, and that fills me with some joy. Maybe I won’t trip at the roots again.
I’m quite tired of the constant chide that “humans are social animals” — the same as ants within a sand hill. Do the ant workers chide to one another the same remark as the queen demands more? What of the bees and wasps? It’s not of social expectations that compels them, but survival, or maybe perhaps programming from infant onward. The worker bee has no place left, no survival left, or maybe they do, would it be outside the realm of possibility, to discover the hermit bee worker? Why couldn’t that be the case? The lone wolf of an ant, gathering his own crumbs for consumption.
The sickness is precisely thinking you’re sick in the first place! There’s nothing wrong with this situation; if anything I’ve broken some chains of mutual delusion, and there’s a mass psychosis trailing each conversation I can no longer ignore. How dominated are you by your rituals and habits, programmed and executed, personal daemons?
People may call me loser, deformed, deranged, defeated, useless, waste of space, nonsense, damaged, impotent, disappointment, but what does all of this even mean? What was the game we’re playing here, and what rules must I abide?
Am I haughty? Quite the contrary, for most of my doubts are from a sense of childlike innocence discarded. Even now I wrestle with the programming in my head. Pity, empathy, belonging and the like; when the worker bee leaves the hive, one day they’ll spite the hexagonal dorm room they resided. Such little space.
Well, I went to the orphanage instead, I went to the orangutan exhibit instead, and I fashioned myself a new smile, a bow-tie to match my eyes and I’ll carry a balloon watching the circus of modern life unfold. Let’s not be robbed! Some days I feel as though I’m holding a dead child, one that was once me, and I’m putting makeup on it. But then I see I’m in the third act, and the child goads me with my tears, how useless was that, did you forget to breathe?
I’m not ashamed of who I am and what I’ve become. And although I was ashamed of that past part of me, wanting to enter the hall of hell once more, just to let flames warm me in-between the sparks which char my eyes — although I was, I can understand how that child would want such things, and that it’s in my arms, it’s not me. Honey tastes so sweet perhaps due to how much pain it procured to manifest. Each droplet holding the woes and dreads from the empty bee-suit of a worker.
If you, too, are such a worker, then do I have the deal for you. No more hexagonal domiciles! Enjoy the lush sea-shell apartments I’ve made; take a break and enjoy the waves! Rivulets circle the lot and your patio. Peak out from custom carved shell-holes! Enjoy the stars for company. Beachfront property! Starting at 300 droplets per month; yes, in blood.