Smashing False Idols

To see the delusions that created you, made you that hobbled mess that drools from stimuli to stimuli, fall dead on the floor at the accidental pop of the gun you thought was a toy is to feel a mixture of joy and horror. The spine does not know whether to straighten out or scrunch closer to the hollow ground. Satisfaction and stress fight deadly skirmishes in every nerve ending, conscripting your attention and energy. Reality stares you hard in the face as the father who has removed the mask hiding his disappointment, the mask that you painted, that he wore for you as a favor to your mother.

Fleshiness is liable to become sickening and the manic sounds made by our beloved modern-day-Americans will assault you like neon lights stab a highly sensitized woman suffering from migraines. This state of neuro-paralysis strikes like hammer on bone because your will is but a thin membrane – underdeveloped compared to the muscle of historic Man and your neighbor Chad. Those delusions made you weak – did you really think that they were free? Their price was your virility.

Will you return?

Happy worship.