“People grow so used to fear, to murder, to contempt and hate that they become deaf to whatever in them whispers that maybe they are wriong and their attitude simply reflects what they loathe in their own lives. That is why they prefer drugs to suppress their despair – the illusion of instant cure keeps them going. But the canker which devours them remains.”
– Raoul Vaneigem, The Book of Pleasures
are we the dead shuffling faceless?
an aimless mass of corpses awaiting a not so distant end?
numb to pleasure
numb to pain
overwhelmed by our surroundings and the traps we have laid?
to protect ignorance from arrogance we carve this skin of stone
and as the weights of cast and character layer with the years
we drown at the convergence of rivers poisoned by this world
each second I let slip by
every feeling I sacrifice
the emotions which I deny
drag me down into the depths