these buttons are clickable.
tired of numbers. sick of the same four websites reposting and rehashing the same conversations and controversies over and fucking over. exhausted by the refusal to engage meaningfully with entertainment.
i miss what the internet was meant for: human connection.
ironically, this is going to be my space alone. my space to grieve, lie, vent, invent, craft, fail, triumph. who sees is not my concern. that's their problem.
there's no city smog here. perhaps i can kick my feet up with an ill-advised aliment. hunker down. ink stamp word after word with my worn-out typewriter before the fear can catch up. by chance i might build something worthwhile. by chance i might spirit myself away from self-censorship in the cause of art.
the best parts of the story are often the most "worrisome" bits.
some adults in the general public seem to understand this. others, unfortunately (and often loudly) make it a habit to impose their discomfort with made-up stories upon the remainder.
why is that?
i will become a data cataloguer. a steward of valuable research in the making. expected time delay for research to reflect on the public-facing mirror.
a religion that dictates you're not allowed to mourn. a religion whose founder so hated the sight of people grieving around him that he banishes expressions of it that disquiet it. pretend to value the body and the soul it once held. remind your followers that those outside your creed aren't afforded the same worth, living or dead. pretend unspeakable and unknowable things await them in death. gather the flock close. don't let them see the knife until you've brought them on the slaughterhouse floor. if they oppose you, their flesh will only serve as example for the remainders. in one stroke they understand; disobedience is death.
thanking all the non-existant gods out there for not making that a reality. i only could have done it without you.
probably.