by Max Barry

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Desolation is purity.

Liberation a feint dream, a momentary psychedelic experience that channels the most benign and malignant parts of the human spirit, a tightly-woven blanket made with the care of a thousand mothers, one that provides warmth and mystery to the desolate, dissonant coldness and brutality of the night. One that is either a short-lived experience, or a near-infinite story, neither having an in-between. Yet they all are common in one aspect, one single, unifying goal: broaden the horizons of man, deliver pleasure to such a degree that it would rival the act of sex alone, and convince man that yes, humanity has hope.

It is all futile.

My Šons on this planet have thought me at least one thing, that we as men, women, and children, are doomed to fly high, we as a species are dead-set by sheer instinct to produce as many Icarus's as possible. To teach our offspring to hit high, to be the victorious underdog in a truly malignant state, only to then fall under our own weight, all due to our arrogance. What is done to stop this cycle? Nothing. We simply embrace it, as everyone, deep down at least, is masochistic to the core. Pain and pleasure go hand in hand for those looking for a high, after all.

After such a travesty that is a collapse of a human, it is only long before such a chipper demeanor is struck harder than a blacksmiths blade, all to straighten it out, and prepare it for it's inevitable fate. Thou is only a creation of the powers that be to suit one purpose, one unifying goal in a universe of opposition: monotony. To repeat the process again and again, expecting even the slightest of difference to come of it. Expecting for some form of mercy that simply contradicts an inner desire, pleasure at the hands of pain. Obstructed man may be with denying such an idea is not magnanimous, it is cowardice to the extreme.

I am no different.

And despite having attempted to stop the cycle at once, nothing comes to fruition.

It is futility at it's zenith.

I have tried countless times to break free, to liberate myself, but fate stops that.

I am doomed to fall, and so are you.

I have chosen to be alone.

I've found peace in such a state. Not having to deal with any individual, only worrying about one's own needs, instead of a collective need, has, and always will be, addicting. Once one tastes freedom, it's hard to wash off the taste.

Bah, who am I kidding? I despise, I loathe to such an immeasurable degree, solitude. I have not chosen it. I have been forced into an infinite chess game, with every attempt as futile, as degrading, as damaging as the last. Backing down is life-ending.

I wish it was easier. I wish it could've been different, I wish I wasn't tossed into this. I wish I was with her again. I wish everything was....normal.

I am doomed to this, but I reject my fate. Yet to no avail.

Come back, please.

Life is killing me.