Who did Jesus die for anyway?
Today marks six years since I woke up in that field south of town with dried streaks of blood running down the insides of the lengths of my legs.
I remember finding my torn Hello Kitty panties a few feet away, as I crawled on all fours towards the abandoned building that I knew hosted the event I had to work at the previous night.
My legs hurt and my arms were bruised with marks that looked like the imprints of fingers. In that moment my brain was a thoughtless mass of dense ignorance to what had happened to me.
Today marks six years since I've felt safe and loved by God.
I now know that He did little to protect me against the desires of the demons that mutilated my body. The body that was drugged and lifelessly dragged into the shadows of a rough and overgrown field. I remember robotically plucking out blades of dried grass from my matted hair whilst wondering when I had committed a sin so devastatingly unforgivable that God deserted me. Would my repentance be so trivial, that I don't qualify for the mercy bestowed upon us by the sacrifice of Christ?
Today marks six years since I've abandoned my self-esteem and concluded that I am nothing more than just a product of all the damage I've endured.
How does one measure the volume of an empty container? How does one resuscitate a partially decomposed vessel of a soul that has departed a long time ago?
Today marks six years since I've felt.
What the fuck is the actual point?
I fear I'm destined for mediocrity.
That I am no more than just another fertile womb responsible for the insurance of the success of my species in the animal kingdom.
At least we're allowed to fuck irresponsibly without pumping ourselves full of hormones that change our holy temple's chemistry synthetically against what our biology intended.
What are the side-effects I have to suffer for jailing my femininity?
Me, an ill equipped catalyst to the existence of another chronically depressed masochist in search of meaning in a world devoid of substance.
I guess I invest a lot of time pondering a profound reason for my physical existence, that feeds myself spiritually by moving it in a direction that leads to the fatality of my ego.
So I do drugs. It aids me by accelerating the processes my mind has to be confronted with to reach that awakening I academically regard as a road towards reaching my full potential.
I'm not ignorant to the fact that I'm still just a mammal naturally existing to fall prey to the superior.
So humanity clings to religion, to mind-fuck us into believing we're individually, inherently special and uniquely engineered to form a part of the puzzle that embodies the image of the Holy Dictator that is solely entitled to judging and guiding our spirit to where we deserve to spend an eternal destiny, either in relentless pain or bliss.
I yearn for the dark abyss of non-existence. A thoughtless lack of concrete being. A short lived concept that only exist in the generation I shared less than a fraction of a breath with over geological time. I am just a brief thought in the evermore march of time towards our inevitable destruction of the Earth that feeds us.
So what the fuck is the actual point, unless I find a way to conjure up a way to convince my mind that something exists external to my rational understanding? I pray to the Mother. The underlying rhythm of the universe that led to my sentience against all odds. Does she whisper to me in my escape of consciousness? Or am I slowly turning into someone detached from logical reality?
The answer is maybe.