I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Blog, he said. And then there was light.
Hear me or not, I’m talking. The intellectuals are an endangered species.
Us, the observers, were the ones sitting in your alleyways defying gravity while you do your taxes and schedule meetings. We’re the ones thinking while you’re obeying.
Manic depression, how about manic reality? We’re alive. Do we need to be medicated into submission, drugged into paper lives you live? Prozac dripping geniuses spread their knowledge like the h1n1 you hide from.
Are you taxpayers the living dead?
Zombies with wallets. Ears but no brain.
Your wax is melting, degenerate consumers.
And when the world goes up in flames, you can’t eat your goddamn paper money and your fucking plastic credit cards, or your pretty red ferraris that scream your mental handicaps.
When do the developmentally challenged begin to treat the sane? Or when DID they?
Your pretty gardened slums with big iron cast gates ornate and polished. What’s uncomfortable about truth? What is so easily deniable about the undeniable truth- that truth being that your most expensive stain remover will never remove the blood and piss and tears your leave behind when you die? And what’s so tragic about the fact that your satin sheets will be stained anyways?
The blind search for perfection.
