anti-submission sesion

Swallow my pain, drive her insane. Stay for a while and in the blink of an eye try to save the fragments of consciousness gazing back like broken glass. Jump out of the numbness; you’ve remained in the dark for so long…Don’t you remember? You used to feel, you used to see. Blindness took over when you weren’t looking. And now it stares back at you square in the eye. Its helpless, every time a thought of unconventionality pops into your mind, the conditioning suppresses the rebellion of ideas and sends you dashing back to the place you were before. To the dark. To the system. To the slow turning wheels of the darling structure.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Systems of control fighting for the head of fucking Slavery Incorporated. Time to stand, time to understand, become conscious. Break free, break loose, and once and for all overthrow world controllers.
Submit and regret.

WHATEVER

Blank page. New start, new beginnings.
More doors?
Opportunity,
change,
chaos.
Revolution of the mind, transformation of the soul.
Bullshit?
Every time something ends, it seems so final. And it usually isn’t so. There’s always a follow-up. A lingering feeling that sort of dangles in mid-air. Sometimes we play with it, other times we lock it up in the lowest drawer of old, forgotten furniture. It’s almost comical how we think that that is the way to move on, to be over. But it crawls, escapes and finds its way back into your mind…or even worse, your heart. I come to think that when it settles up North, in some corner of the psyche, it’s possible to handle. There’s suppression, lost memory, and other very well known defenses. But when it finds its way back to the heart, that’s when you’re fucking screwed. That visceral feeling that roots into the body, every inch, every cell, is the most difficult to rid of. Especially when we don’t want it. ´Cos when we do, it doesn’t last as much as we would like. That is the ultimate paradox.
Penelope, always wanting what she doesn’t have.