Anonymous
6/19/2025, 8:58:32 AM
No.81540028
[Red]
A place where the psyche becomes the remnants of battleground, a lost fight between the self and itself, a liminal space between has been and could have been.
A noman's land of forgotten dreams and shattered illusions, drenched in the blood of the shadow clinging to a life it never had, and a crown it never earned.
Its ethereal grasping hands slip and lose grip like a clown comically falling on a banana peel dropped from his own banana, and its ill gotten crown falls into the abyss of his own heart.
A heart that beats not with life, but of echoes, echoes of a throne never sat upon, and a kingdom never ruled forever saved in the delusions of the fragmented self.
A heart, that possibly holds the one savior, buried beneath the layers of cynical, hysterical laughter and the scorched flesh of forgotten confessions, twitching like the last bait worm in a tin can labeled "Hope".
The savior, not dawned in light, but cast in shadows and darkness stitched together with the thread past regrets and the remnants of dried dream pulp, never sought to be seen again.
A thing neither grotesque nor noble, but hidden and obscured by the blurried lens of self deception. Unbearably familiar like a forgotten voice that screams your name through your own spine at 3am.
Yes, that's him. He looks into your own eyes, the wretched one of composted selves discarded into the recesses of the psyche, dragging behind it a mirror as if it were a heavy cross, begging for the self to peer. Even for just a moment.
The circus tent erupts into flames as the mirror turns inward, the music distorts and the reflection of the self melts away like an ice cream cone in the hot summer sun.
The audience, all cardboard cutouts with your own face and hallowed out eyes all cheer in silence and beckon you deeper into the flaming tent. You try to step forward, but your feet do not move, the floor drags you forward like a conveyor belt made of old diary pages and broken promises to yourself.
[/Red]
A place where the psyche becomes the remnants of battleground, a lost fight between the self and itself, a liminal space between has been and could have been.
A noman's land of forgotten dreams and shattered illusions, drenched in the blood of the shadow clinging to a life it never had, and a crown it never earned.
Its ethereal grasping hands slip and lose grip like a clown comically falling on a banana peel dropped from his own banana, and its ill gotten crown falls into the abyss of his own heart.
A heart that beats not with life, but of echoes, echoes of a throne never sat upon, and a kingdom never ruled forever saved in the delusions of the fragmented self.
A heart, that possibly holds the one savior, buried beneath the layers of cynical, hysterical laughter and the scorched flesh of forgotten confessions, twitching like the last bait worm in a tin can labeled "Hope".
The savior, not dawned in light, but cast in shadows and darkness stitched together with the thread past regrets and the remnants of dried dream pulp, never sought to be seen again.
A thing neither grotesque nor noble, but hidden and obscured by the blurried lens of self deception. Unbearably familiar like a forgotten voice that screams your name through your own spine at 3am.
Yes, that's him. He looks into your own eyes, the wretched one of composted selves discarded into the recesses of the psyche, dragging behind it a mirror as if it were a heavy cross, begging for the self to peer. Even for just a moment.
The circus tent erupts into flames as the mirror turns inward, the music distorts and the reflection of the self melts away like an ice cream cone in the hot summer sun.
The audience, all cardboard cutouts with your own face and hallowed out eyes all cheer in silence and beckon you deeper into the flaming tent. You try to step forward, but your feet do not move, the floor drags you forward like a conveyor belt made of old diary pages and broken promises to yourself.
[/Red]