Make sure you do it three times,, no more, no less. well, maybe just a little more, one can treat themself at a time such as this. wash, wash, wash. three to five times. It is imperative that you keep it as routine as possible, you are aware I am sure. make it habit. must be clean, must stay clean. wash, wash, wash, wash, wash. pluck, pluck. Maybe it is much the same for you, yes? Then again, I suppose maybe not. maybe you feel it elsewhere, your skin perhaps? I would love nothing more than to think that you do, but you simply fear it, the one who speaks to us all. His voice is heard in all our minds for we are the children which dream, those who dream hear, and those who hear have the wonderous potential to see. pluck, pluck, pluck the hairs right off of your tender, precious eyes. from those beautiful, stunning orbs. those lashes make nice tinder for his fire. burn, burn, burn. Slowly the ash building and blowing, drying and cracking your skin. your soft, oh so pristine skin. you should take a moment to rejoice now, you see? For he graces you with such a wonderful gift. now you may add new routines , new acts . the blood makes you wash to keep it clean. Leve, great lord of cleanliness and all that is pure. I wash and awash and wash my weary cracked hands, I soak them and steep them in oils and creams to try and keep this vile bodies sweet juice of life back and at bay, to keep it within its normal confines, but I fail you., I am not as clean as thy acolytes of elder times. I cry and I weep for what is a man who cannot give himself wholly to the greatest purifier that is and always shall eb.t he one who seeks to cleanse the world of all impurity in all its forms? I weep for my disability, for that makes my inferior form so less attractive to the lord of purity. Leve, when my genetic code is gone and taken, whilst then I be clean? Could it be this form which we take now, this Hominidaeic horror-form? No, for its in my weakest and most vile parts of my soul, it is my burden to bear for all time, that which makes me in to the wretch that I am, this horrid hag that is bound top use tool and aids in order to keep clean, in order to keep the cleanliness of my hands so that I may place them together in prayer and worship that great clean form of Leve! you my lord are decider of all who is worthy, please take my sacrifices, my lashes and hair, the kindling to your fire which shall burn all of your impurities. take them and taken me into your delightful world of clean bliss where non shall suffer the horror of this filthy, disgusting world.
I cant recall when that sound first was heard, but I can tell you that it has always pierced through what it what is as it makes it so hard to think straight, it raises the pressure in my veins, allowing my eyelids to become so heavy as to be felt upon mine eyes. Oh brother how deep it is that they sink upon these fleshy spheres. I think you would call it anxiety, but why does it get so loud? why does the word not convey what is felt by the mind and heart. Pulse, Pulse, pulse Pang.
I have always looked at scientific results as sort of a game, or at least I feel that's how they should be viewed. When I am outside looking at animals or different plants, I tend to try and identify them. Most everything has a listed maximum and minimum size it will be found at, and I feel like people should view these numbers the same as speed running. there should be a push for people to get more involved with their own environment. Imagine a world where people are uploading numbers of or their own scientific evidence photo and analysis and then have it posted to a sort of animal/plant leaderboard. The same thing I feel should be seen for species, new species, the world should be interested in cataloguing and understanding that with which we are surrounded our entire lives.
De Profundis. It might just be a Latin phrase but it also happens to be a game I have heard of and read about. Or well, maybe its a game, I am not too sure honestly. No one else I have met has ever heard of or played it. I think that they started as a game, or maybe even a way to make flowery writings around the mundane, everyday objects and patterns we see. In De Profundis the game world is this world we live in, and you are a person interested in the occult. It started based off of the works of H.P. Lovecraft, but reading through the manual it seems to be even more than that. Its about the real horror and terror we feel every single day, the chill down our spine and the murmuring in the dark. Its about questioning your own sanity, looking upon oneself as though you were merely a pawn in the intergalactic game of go, each greater thing only using us to gain territory on a board we can't even hope to comprehend.
I keep thinking of how this should have already been posted, but then I start to think even further on what I actually intend to do with these ramblings and ravings. Maybe it is simply to get it out, to remove it from my very brain, excising it like a tumor, but with the precision of a toddler.. Maybe it is to try and start a game of De Profundis. But I feel as though that is my intention, then I know that more must be said. the entirety of the world around me should first be observed, as well as yours. you should clean your very mind of any present worry, look into the soul of the world around you and let its breathe give your weary bones life. hear the cries and wails of the machinery that so incessantly hums and hacks at our peaceful serene silence.
I sometimes find it helpful just to write, and maybe I can help you too—to see the world as I do, to peer past your eyes and through mine. Maybe you'll find that we aren't so different when it comes down to brass tacks. Make of it what you will, but the rancid zephyr that blows from an air conditioner may seem a fresh breath by the end of my writing. Each day I rise from these linens, and from them I move across the world in a stupor, divided by the physical and the metaphysical. The sight of the lives around me, from the singular to the great and many hives of chitinous workers that roam the yard—these small, minute beings wandering upon this earth in much too beautiful a way for us to fully realize or even comprehend. Each ant is never seen as its individual self, despite the fact that they very much are their own person in much the same right as you or I. Each legged beast, even those with naught a leg in sight, shows us often-too-human emotional responses—the preferences that we think separate us from the simple beasts that roam alongside us. When I look with my eyes, I see a blur of color and flashes of light, but what they all mean does not come from what we see. What we know and what we see are both subjugated to our hearts, our minds held deep within our chests, beating and pulsing not with the flow of hemoglobin but with the flow of raw, unbridled emotion—pent up and explosive yet contained in the fine, small tubes we are composed of.