The Beaten Horse

I suppose if I felt so inclined to be whittle-brained enough to expose my mind to enough elements, I could theoretically live in a beautiful lie. I mean- If I wanted to get my ass thrown into the nearest medical ward and be deemed unfit for society, I could definitely do all that, but I'm a realist and a pessimistic one at that. I have jumped into the fray, jostled with demons and chuckled amongst men as if I am the wolf in sheep's clothing, ready to tear off my skin and wreak havoc into the flock over one very delicately 'justified' moment, but I am- again, a realist.

The very notion of jumping into the crowd like a crazed knife-wielding maniac would be no different than me being plastered over the front of your television like some dim-witted massacring asshole trying to assert that he's very much fucking heard. And I can assure you he isn't being heard, he's just seen and he'll be ridiculed even more from now than he already is.

I already have lived in the muddiest and murkiest of bogs, trudged through bullshit infested waters and swallowed enough sludge to spew it back out like someone who's been whiffing arsenic in a factory a little too long. No. The ugliness in truth is where I live, and there is comfort in ugly, because the lie- The lie is only beautiful when you are ignorant and dumb, dimwitted to the surroundings and just as much open to being the laughing stock of all the ones around you who cast judgement on your lack of awareness. I have been the mockery of many discussions, the outcast of communities, and the strange and odd where every other complacent fellow was upright and exonerated of their behaviors, because 'that's just the way they were' and anything I did even in mimicry of them was to be completely and utterly condemned. No. I am not them... And they are not me.

The ugliness is far more beautiful than the farce of some 'beauty' I force-feed myself to fall asleep at night until I wake up and it isn't.