As I sit in this entirely familiar den for downtrodden victims of the symmetrical effects of overindulgence an neglect, observing my comfortable role as ruler over it for eight hours or so at a time, I reach understanding. I understand the impulse; the simple pseudo-instinctual tick to plant roots in the nearest plot of shit-laden soil and grow branches, leaves...fruit. A warm home and steady job...sure, I can see the appeal. I can see how it'd be easy to fall into.

In that greater understanding it becomes crystal-fucking-clear t at the whole fucking concept is much too pathetic to even disgust me.

Stagnant air cannot produce anything creative, productive, or new. Thus, the family exists in the half acre spaces where people pay for it to be theirs in thirty years. My revulsion burns at this like fire; somehow, it's not enough and it's saved from becoming ash.

I want to run...run as if my legs were wings and only collapse when broken on the faceless apocalypse to sip cool water from a forbidden oasis before moving on. There would be no life in me if I left my lips pressed into the dirt to attempt to lift water from dried and deserted wells. All that would be left would be sleep; and what's the point in dreaming dreams if the waking world is a static perspective?

Fuck it, I'm twenty five years old. I still have enough to be angry about. Enough anger to last an angels lifetime. I don't need another reason to run like a spreading fire.

Destruction...

Destroy Once Done