The Psychological Ramblings of Hiru
Two writings of mine that I had made a few days ago. :3 You'll see these somewhere else in the Fallen Forums. Specifically in Al's house because I wanted her to see it the most. lol. I was venting when I wrote them, too. I'm always poetic when I'm venting, it appears. lol
Two writings of mine that I had made a few days ago. :3 You'll see these somewhere else in the Fallen Forums. Specifically in Al's house because I wanted her to see it the most. lol. I was venting when I wrote them, too. I'm always poetic when I'm venting, it appears. lol
The Inquisitive Human Dud
The sweat drips from my head like brackish memories that I cannot forget, but only disperse into a world where they dispel emotion and detour the thought of amnesty from the people that need bestow it most in handfuls.
Am I not what I seem, or am I more than anything a definite definition of how I appear? The crystal-clear façade of bliss I had fashioned for my part, with the purpose of impression and intimidation of a more menagerie type living, isn’t a semiprecious gem at all, but more of an astounding counterfeit attempt at a rock that is engraved with incompetence to satisfy inanity. It is a bayou filled with the humidity of my mental precipitation and a chaotic composition of the murky, yet inquisitive idea of my thoughts developing their deliverance.
Maybe the menacing mirrors that make my memories return through the ruthless router of remembrance turn the commemoration con chaos into something so close as silver is to gold compared to my benediction of the builder of said bedlam.
Pandemonium is now a sanctuary, though the resonance of his utterance distributes a convulsion to a sliver of my premeditating psyche. Why do I greave the slaughter of mayhem when tranquility seems so close in proximity to my reaching fingertips? Defective fingertips, like the eyes of needles, who spread past their capability to attain autonomy through a knotted maze of filament sewn into a patchwork of competence. To its comparison, why do I reach so desperately for serenity when I lack the ability to be content with the thought of concord?
If the sporadic vibrating of my cochlea at the shrieking in my own dripping thoughts satisfies me, then why do I seek governance over my own inner sovereignty?
I, in lexis of minimum terminology, am a human dud.
My breeding is that more inferior to the superfluous mutt for it’s hideous appearance. Stained fangs drip with froth and malevolent vehemence that assail out onto the world for the ignorance of his existence, and in turn, the world wraps a gag taut about his jaw and heaves him to his demise to his own ignorance, for their own absence in his life, nonetheless.
My eyes are lifeless when they come across themselves. They loathe themselves and turn away, whirling the influential organ behind it, manufacturing it into a creature with their optical machinery as it proliferates it’s own annihilation.
The very contemplation of the obscurity caused by it, twists my abdomen and agitates the bitterness contained by it, causing a sea of sickness like The Storm of the Century inside of my psychologically cadaverous carcass that twitches with forged enthusiasm.
At times like this, the cascade that plummets from the loft of moist flesh instigates me to wonder. Why do I sanction the intentional enterprise to endure behind rival fortifications?
In less significant clarity, I suppose I raise too many questions.
Am I not what I seem, or am I more than anything a definite definition of how I appear? The crystal-clear façade of bliss I had fashioned for my part, with the purpose of impression and intimidation of a more menagerie type living, isn’t a semiprecious gem at all, but more of an astounding counterfeit attempt at a rock that is engraved with incompetence to satisfy inanity. It is a bayou filled with the humidity of my mental precipitation and a chaotic composition of the murky, yet inquisitive idea of my thoughts developing their deliverance.
Maybe the menacing mirrors that make my memories return through the ruthless router of remembrance turn the commemoration con chaos into something so close as silver is to gold compared to my benediction of the builder of said bedlam.
Pandemonium is now a sanctuary, though the resonance of his utterance distributes a convulsion to a sliver of my premeditating psyche. Why do I greave the slaughter of mayhem when tranquility seems so close in proximity to my reaching fingertips? Defective fingertips, like the eyes of needles, who spread past their capability to attain autonomy through a knotted maze of filament sewn into a patchwork of competence. To its comparison, why do I reach so desperately for serenity when I lack the ability to be content with the thought of concord?
If the sporadic vibrating of my cochlea at the shrieking in my own dripping thoughts satisfies me, then why do I seek governance over my own inner sovereignty?
I, in lexis of minimum terminology, am a human dud.
My breeding is that more inferior to the superfluous mutt for it’s hideous appearance. Stained fangs drip with froth and malevolent vehemence that assail out onto the world for the ignorance of his existence, and in turn, the world wraps a gag taut about his jaw and heaves him to his demise to his own ignorance, for their own absence in his life, nonetheless.
My eyes are lifeless when they come across themselves. They loathe themselves and turn away, whirling the influential organ behind it, manufacturing it into a creature with their optical machinery as it proliferates it’s own annihilation.
The very contemplation of the obscurity caused by it, twists my abdomen and agitates the bitterness contained by it, causing a sea of sickness like The Storm of the Century inside of my psychologically cadaverous carcass that twitches with forged enthusiasm.
At times like this, the cascade that plummets from the loft of moist flesh instigates me to wonder. Why do I sanction the intentional enterprise to endure behind rival fortifications?
In less significant clarity, I suppose I raise too many questions.
The Poignant Epitome of My Existence
An epiphany opens my optical casement to what unerringly ‘is’. I ascertain by means of varying assessments, via my deteriorating vigor and cerebral upheaval, that I, in my own psyche, am nothing additional than grotesque. Albeit, I am also fascinating, in an intriguing means, to the extent of pure incomprehension when it comes to the vocals of either the lone raven or it’s murder. How they caw superficially means nothing to me, nonetheless, I manage to identify inwardly that I can, in some way, suffer the wrench of their sour intonation.
This indiscernible echo murmurs in the aft of my mind, demanding my presence, or at least the consideration that flanks it. It is caused by the devoted paranoia that lies in the offing to be taken notice of and deciphered for it’s real intent. I, conversely, disregard it and shed it off of my flesh like scales that have served their purpose and are henceforth useless. I want to do with it naught and no matter how it appears, I desire that the quintessence of my inner sentiment that lines this paranoia were to be no more.
The edict of Conservation of Mass confirms to me that things that exist cannot plainly vanish, be it air, fluid, solid, or plasma; nor can anything be generated from pure nothingness. So, if an individual subsequent to such laboratory understanding was to assume the unseen credence upon my shoulders, my saddle of sentiment, is in fact, mass in itself, they would know that it couldn’t be unbridled without something to seize the place of it.
What would be the substitute for it? What ridiculous, unearthly thing would pilfer the place of desolation and create a long-term ensemble of melancholy wretchedness for itself? It makes me believe that there isn’t a thing in the world that would take the place of it and consequently I can only deem that misery is to be harnessed and chained, so that only the slope of you’re shoulder may perhaps tell how blissful you are to what you cannot distinguish with your own eyes.
Alas, I am vexed with this stifling self-control that befall from my precedent familiarity. I no longer can shout out in glee, but only in a falsehood mock of it. I am a fabrication made by those who envelop me and the roil in my torso knocks on the door of my mentality once more.
“Who are you? What do you do? Why are you here?”
My machine doesn’t answer back; it leaves only a fuzzed hush that inevitably turns awkward it’s listener and chases them waywardly towards leaving to it’s noise unaccompanied. There is no reassuring tone to enlighten you of its recording and no consoling words to give surety that your inquiries and sweet good wishes are perpetual until heard. You are left to your own and predictably you will abscond while eyes are turned.
Now my eyes turn and my attention is elsewhere. Now, should you flee or will you stay with me as my thoughts drowned me? Will you hold my hand as the sand encompasses me and fill my lungs, scratching away my voice and leaving me silent? Will you be my eyes as they go sightless from their own seeing? Will you lead me from end to end of the bayou of my core or am I to wait on the shore amid the reeds alone?
The wind whistles throughout the cattails, but their singing is unheard.
This indiscernible echo murmurs in the aft of my mind, demanding my presence, or at least the consideration that flanks it. It is caused by the devoted paranoia that lies in the offing to be taken notice of and deciphered for it’s real intent. I, conversely, disregard it and shed it off of my flesh like scales that have served their purpose and are henceforth useless. I want to do with it naught and no matter how it appears, I desire that the quintessence of my inner sentiment that lines this paranoia were to be no more.
The edict of Conservation of Mass confirms to me that things that exist cannot plainly vanish, be it air, fluid, solid, or plasma; nor can anything be generated from pure nothingness. So, if an individual subsequent to such laboratory understanding was to assume the unseen credence upon my shoulders, my saddle of sentiment, is in fact, mass in itself, they would know that it couldn’t be unbridled without something to seize the place of it.
What would be the substitute for it? What ridiculous, unearthly thing would pilfer the place of desolation and create a long-term ensemble of melancholy wretchedness for itself? It makes me believe that there isn’t a thing in the world that would take the place of it and consequently I can only deem that misery is to be harnessed and chained, so that only the slope of you’re shoulder may perhaps tell how blissful you are to what you cannot distinguish with your own eyes.
Alas, I am vexed with this stifling self-control that befall from my precedent familiarity. I no longer can shout out in glee, but only in a falsehood mock of it. I am a fabrication made by those who envelop me and the roil in my torso knocks on the door of my mentality once more.
“Who are you? What do you do? Why are you here?”
My machine doesn’t answer back; it leaves only a fuzzed hush that inevitably turns awkward it’s listener and chases them waywardly towards leaving to it’s noise unaccompanied. There is no reassuring tone to enlighten you of its recording and no consoling words to give surety that your inquiries and sweet good wishes are perpetual until heard. You are left to your own and predictably you will abscond while eyes are turned.
Now my eyes turn and my attention is elsewhere. Now, should you flee or will you stay with me as my thoughts drowned me? Will you hold my hand as the sand encompasses me and fill my lungs, scratching away my voice and leaving me silent? Will you be my eyes as they go sightless from their own seeing? Will you lead me from end to end of the bayou of my core or am I to wait on the shore amid the reeds alone?
The wind whistles throughout the cattails, but their singing is unheard.
