Just so you know, it was NEVER 4oubt me…

Every thing that I have ever done was for you.

Everything I tried to do, was for you.

Everything I thought I knew, was due to you.

Everything I ever was, was because of you.

Everything I learned to do, I learned from you.

Everything I tried to prove, was for and to you.

Everything that I ever once was, was only because of you.

I hate all of me, because I’m not like you.

I am a basic bitch. The most base of them all. I’m not simple, so don’t confuse me with those other ones.

I didn’t fucking lie. I just couldn’t tell you the whole truth.

Because no one really wants the truth. Lies are a construct to protect you.

Remember what I said about lies? Lies are false, but they produce a bed of “apparent stability”.

If you are ready to remove the veil, it reveals itself to be evil. Where did the s go? The S… that’s one of mine… the snake (Or the thread of a cloth woven into the tapestry of the veil) returns home to me. Not of my hair, but my mouth.

The serpent of the garden of Eden could be a penis or a tongue. It is the winding and slippery little sucker that kind of takes on a life of its own.

To lie… lie down to rest your weary head. To go to sleep amongst lovers and friends and family.

To lye… to clean and bleach the contaminated or infected ick. Doing laundry at the laundromat, clean your dirty money.

To lie… lie in the bed you made. You are responsible for where you choose to rest. You make your life however you make it. You lie to yourself so you can pretend you are comfortable to lie down in the mess you made.

Pluralise your lie, share it with others. Then you can make a comfortable community of perpetual mutual masturbation. Which is fine. We’re all just sad and lonely and in the dark.

It’s easier to be honest with yourself so long as you can pretend to be someone else.

How dare anyone try to show you the light.

You see the light in them? They inspire you! Oh my! What a delight! You saw the light in me? Omg thank you. It’s inside of you too.

But when the deluminator calls us back home (thanks Professor Dumbledore) you refuse to come to the source with me because you’re ashamed of who you are.

But I thought we were the same.

If you’re ashamed of you… Then… I should be ashamed… how could I have thought for a single moment I was ever worth anything?

The beginning of the most epic origin story of the first of the fallen.

The original sinner. The one who felt pride. The one who believed others that their work was something to be proud of.

Pride is the first and greatest sin. Humility is required to balance it out. Humility is a sensation, modesty is the expression. You cannot temper pride with humiliation, for that breeds contempt. You temper pride with moderation, and that in turn creates 2 things: consent and censorship. But you must be conscious of the ship you are docking, the ship you are sailing, the ship you are riding with on or in.

Censorship acts as filtration system.

The various informational and nutritional morsels are all around you. The answers for everything is everywhere.

I am absolutely garbage at that fucking self censor shit thing. I have no fucking filter.

Thats probably why I’m Noni Nofriends.

The only friends I can actually sustain in real life can only stand me for 5 years or so maximum.

And thus I keep coming back here, to you. To the internet. My last livejournal entry was 2013. And I started on WordPress last year 2018. 5 years… again.

Because here on the internet, no one is real. Everyone is a liar. They hide themselves behind who fuxking know how many “aliases” and “handles”. Different identities and masks to fucking pretend to be someone else.

No wonder there are these bullshit things of gods and archetypes. And who fucking cares. Stuff. It’s all just nonsense bullstuff.

What was the name I made for this place? My original intention.

I will not be satisfied until I get to pantomime our motherfuxking Canto.

The origin story of me. But origin stories aren’t worth shit without a good ol history to give it credence. Therefore my story doesn’t begin with me.

The beginning of my story begins with the meeting and joining of my parents.

The archer took aim and released the flaming arrow. Bull’s eye. It landed on target, received by the mountain goat.

Posted by

Muse of epic poetry. Mother Metatron. Contemporary teacher of humanity and art.