cancer to the gut.

and with the echo I let myself in, sitting amongst the posters and lint i've grown up around, letting myself believe in the colours they printed and tints that graced the floor.

Was is this room? My old living space?
The area in which I insured my trust with the rest of the world, that no matter how bad it got that this little section of walls and flooring was mine?

Fuck, I rent for christ's sake.

I wish I could write for me, I think it still comes out of a cliche.
Not that it's fair to give a judgement halfway through one's prose.
That just makes the puzzle of written piece jumbled, like there's more to the words than just the formation of each letter.

Writing to me is an honesty,
the one you can't speak because we're to immature.
the one you can move to because the beat is off.
the one you can't remember because you've gotten blind over the years.

Writting to me is like a stab,
It goes, maby not as quick as you'd like, but it goes through, slowly taking pieces of ideas from the wound you've made and takes them along to the rest of the body, staining each new idea that prints itself.
Once the knife reaches the other side your already done, and like marauders we look over our work again, just to make sure you didn't miss any crucial arteries.

writing is like an autopsy to a piece of paper, and the victim has a stab wound.

Fink.

I've lit an old cigar from my past.

Not that I feel it's nostalgic nor in any matter of the sense; cool.

I feel that there is an unknown camaraderie between man and his breath.

That the only way to feel truly alive with one's lungs, is to work them, test them, give them a smell and colour. 

Breathing aside, it's clear that most unknown and unfaced motions in our lives are the most important ones, the ones that put things off-kilter in a sort of unknowing romantic way. These motions are like a portion of our minds that we don't know exist. The comforting thought that millions of actions are within power to go smoothly or explode without ignition and no matter how many hours the day graces us, we go to bed the exact same way every day. 

how morally strong we all are.

how incredibly ignorant we all are.

how completely insightful is the comment itself when we don't think about it?

what if we just mindlessly live and give in.

When everything works out to keep the seconds passing, i'd say that's a plus.

It's a point, a stagnant pool of comfort, keeping our team just a few points up to feel safe. 

It's rewiring the bell to allow for just a few more rounds in the boxing match, to see the little guy get beat just for a few more minutes.

Most say it's human nature, but selfishly putting ourselves in the shoes of dogs and birds is merely comical. 

We are what we have done in the past and without the series of events leading up to our existence we would be like every animal we so boastfully compare ourselves to. 

We are instinctual and selfish hoarders of the national thought. We are animals who will attack with weapons. We are our own destruction. 

Then why all this thought? all this abrupt imposition of self loathing and spiraling case of paranoia? Why give us the weapons to our own defeat as central human beings?

We have this power to use, and as a questioning species it is in our wills to use that power because we own it, not God or anyone we don't believe in.

God is my friend and I thank him for what he is given, but does he expect anything in return?

If so then I feel he's gotten the piece of coal promised to him by his lying parents on the night of the 24th of december. Regardless of each clashing story, it's not whether we believe in Santa or Christ himself but how we create a story for ourselves.

Will we make idols in the next generation who we see fit as a glorifying persona, set into motion to set us free as a people?

Or will we question some more and just keep puffing away at the cigar or baby smokes, buzzing ourselves until the next high.

Now I'm not anything but I do know me as myself. I let everything go into motion knowing most of it can be against what I believe, 

but I guess that's what having thought is all about.

Knowing that no matter how much I believe somthing....

There are over 9 billion reasons why I'm wrong.

But at least you know that one of them could be right.

who are we in escapse-pods?