Haha, Too Bad Fuckers. I Don’t Actually Have Any Followers So I’m Going To Shove Down All Your Throats.

Haha, too bad fuckers. I don’t actually have any followers so I’m going to shove down all your throats. >:)

The horrors in which our world is shaped—the way it fleets and falls, bends only to disrupt— are not so apparent when you grow so accustomed to humanity. Focusing on nothing else but your fellow species—how you guide or succumb to the very rules you aren’t aware you follow. Once everyday begins to feel the same with your mundane chores and work schedule, you begin to believe every single day is the exact same. Without noticing the person who called out to you hasn’t left their home in months.

Without noticing the dying plants beneath your feet that never regrow due to the traction of hundreds of others. Do you notice exactly how many people smile everyday, how many others lead destructive lives? No; how are you meant to? You focus on the exhaustion you feel, the pain you’ve learned to encumber. The learned smile that fades when no one is near, the anxiety you suppress simply to get by. How many others feel the same? How many others will never let in on the giant secret that everyone contains?

The horrors in which our world is built upon don’t lie simply in the humanity of it all. If you are especially empathetic, you may notice how wolves tear apart their prey, or spiders trap theirs. How certain species—what we’ve named—manipulate their food in order to live. Do we draw the line at survival, or is horror how we live our lives? Playing willfully ignorant to ensure our days run better.

The horrors in which our society is built upon—manipulation, deceit, mutilation, dread—go ignored in light of a better life; a world we deem perfect—impossible to en capture. The way we are all so uninspired— feigning happiness in our impossible-to-enrapture world. A house so filled with dread, a twin you feel magnetized to, a city encompassed in hate—they all become normal. A mundane piece of life.

Perhaps that is where our genres originate. A romanticization of our own world, a necessary form of escapism so our lives aren’t as apprehensive. However unenthused our genres become, how cliché and unoriginal our creations turn into, we all live the same lives where an escape is deemed a necessity.

Our authors and artists deemed hopeless in a world dependent on their creations—however dull they may be. A horror-stricken world that feigns self-reliance, one so positive it is built on self-assurance. Allow us our creations, no matter how depraved, allow us our intentions to bring forth the true dreads in our world.

We crave peace in a war-stricken earth and creativity where it is suppressed. We all wish our version of good in this world and we all tear our humanity away from our very souls. Those of us who crave violence and those of us who crave peace are all the same in our creative fields. In our obligations and moralities. We wish for light, we wish for dark; we all wish for our own contradictions.

The way we tear apart, bend, misconstrue and manipulate—how we bring satisfaction and trust to only those of us “deserving”—how we trap, misalign, subdue, willfully ignore… and destroy.

Perhaps that is what creates our horror—in which our world is shaped.

Haha, does anyone want to read a little thing I wrote?